


Chasing the Clouds

by itsallaboutzarry



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: A look through time, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Emphatic control, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Harry is drunk for most of chapter 2, M/M, Sonic scream, Stupid Boys, Vitakinesis, Weddings, atmokinesis, pyrokinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 68,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: “Sunshine,” she coos, “today is a big deal.” She runs her hand over his curls, undoing all her careful work. “And it’s okay to be nervous for a big deal, right?”“Right.” Harry swallows dryly.“Right, so. Head up, smile, have a good day…”“And don’t step on any flowers,” Harry finishes, saying his part just like he always does, like he’s heard Anne say countless times.Don’t step on any flowers Harry. They feel it, even if you can’t see it.Or the one where everyone has superpowers, and air and fire don’t mix.





	1. How It Starts

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is somewhat inspired by Plato’s Symposium about Zeus splitting people in half, and Hancock, the movie that’s also kinda based on Plato’s theory.  
> Title taken from Earth, Wind & Fire's song September.  
> Enjoy!

_“Meeting your soulmate is like walking into a house you’ve been in before – you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to.”_

\- Jandy Nelson _, I’ll Give You the Sun_

////

_September 2001_

 “Mom,” Harry whines for what has to be the hundredth time, but Anne still fusses with his hair, again and again, as if it wasn’t in the same state of messy curls as when he walked down the stairs in the morning.

“Harry, stop fidgeting or I’ll make a scene when you get out of the car,” she warns and as soon as the words are out of her mouth, Harry stiffens, stock still, only leaning his head closer to Anne’s hand tangled in his hair. “If you had roots for hair, maybe I could do something with it…”

“You’re gonna make me late.”

“Just… there,” she leans away and turns him by his shoulders, inspecting her work. “Perfect.”

Harry smiles as wide as he can, making his cheeks hurt. “Can I go now?”

He’s been impatient for two weeks. Since the day they went shopping for notebooks and pencil cases, the big one with three zippers just like Harry wanted, because it has an entire compartment for just his coloring pens. Harry got a big backpack that barely fits on his back at this point – Gemma assured him taht he’ll grow into it – and textbooks, some of which are still wrapped in plastic, and the others that have been carefully read but barely understood. Not that Harry really knows what they were about. He’s not the best reader yet, mixing up some of the lowercase letters.

But he’s not the only one nervous now, because he’s at the point where he’s supposed to get out of the car and run to the big scary doors without a hand to hold for his very first day of school. Harry sees it in his mom’s telling lip twitch, but she’s smiling all the same, in that warm way that Harry associates with sunflowers growing in their backyard all year round, even through autumn winds and winter’s snow – the yellow petals glowing through the thick cold layer of white.

“Yes Harry, you can go,” Anne says, but the nerves that have been upsetting his stomach melt away to make room for the need to buckle himself back in and never leave the car as soon as he realizes that this is it. _This is it_.

He can feel Anne looking at him and smiling, but Harry can’t find it in him to appreciate it right now. He isn’t very good at it – Anne said it takes time – but his hands feel like when a storm is coming, like there’s a tornado miles away that twirls in his gut too.

“Sunshine,” she coos, “today is a big deal.” She runs her hand over his curls, undoing all her careful work. “And it’s okay to be nervous for a big deal, right?”

“Right.” Harry swallows dryly.

“Right, so. Head up, smile, have a good day…”

“And don’t step on any flowers,” Harry finishes, saying his part just like he always does, like he’s heard Anne say countless times. _Don’t step on any flowers Harry. They feel it, even if you can’t see it._

“Exactly.”

“Okay.” Harry nods to himself, firm and quick, gets out of the car, waves back at his mom as she drives off and makes his way to the big doors that he knows won’t look as scary in a week.

////

There are kids _everywhere_. Harry recognizes some faces, knows a few names that are probably just as nervous as he is and thinks Gemma should be around here somewhere too, but then she might already be in her class. He’s not supposed to talk to her if they bump in to each other. _Keep your head down and keep walking_ was what she told him last night, but it might have just been a joke. Either way, Harry’s going to take it as one.

First years are all meeting in the gym, he was supposed to remember that, to not get distracted and wonder around looking at everything pretty and shiny, no getting distracted by the fish tanks on the second floor, but go straight to the gym that’s down the end of the hallway on the left. It feels like there are at least a thousand kids running around the basketball court when Harry pushes past the swinging doors, not forty. It feels like an oncoming storm, the screaming and the rushing vibrating through the tips of Harry’s fingers.  

They’re all settled down on the bleachers in the next minute, friends sitting with their heads together to whisper throughout the principle’s speech that flies right over Harry’s head as soon as she starts talking. He’s busy looking around himself, smiling at the kid at the end of his row, Grayson from his block, and Niall, who’s right in the top row waving down at Harry. There are teachers standing next to the principle, smiling brightly at the kids, but they’re waiting for her to stop talking too, Harry can tell. When she does, everyone claps and there’s a loud holler heard from the back, a woman in a bright yellow shirt comes to stand in front of them all. She starts calling out names alphabetically, Harry can tell by the last names. He thinks she looks like the sun.

First, Samantha Aniston is called, then Lucas Bennett, Grayson Bull and so on, as another teacher lines them up in a neat line down the side of the gym. It’s the first class with Michael Simmers standing at the end. And then Miss Sun – if the name fits – turns back to the ones still sitting and calls out the rest of their names; Billy Clay, Niall Horan, Harry Styles and lastly, Jackson Zimmerman, creating two classes of first years, where if Harry hears right, he knows only one other person.

Standing somewhere towards the end, Harry repeats _Don’t step on any flowers_ and thinks of a fresh spring day, his favorite, when the bushes and trees in his backyard start waking up with blossoms the color of a sunset. He thinks of the days when sun is warm, but the air is still fresh against his cheek as he has his toes buried in the green grass to ground himself and feel the sky above his head. _Happy thoughts_.

“Okay,” Miss sun shouts, trying to be heard over the loud ruckus. “Here we are. Class on my left, you’re A and class on my right, you’re B. Welcome to Wheeler Primary School. As Principle Gill said before, I hope you have a wonderful journey with us. I know I’m gonna try to make it the best for you.”

She sounds nice. Harry hopes she’s his teacher. He’d like to go on a wonderful journey with Miss Sun.

“Now, follow the teacher at the end of your class line and remember,” she lifts one finger in the air and everyone seems to settle, turning their eyes on her unquestioningly. “No abilities in school.” There’s a chill in the air as she says it, like someone had turned down the AC, until she smiles again and chirps, “Happy first day of school.”

////

It turns out Miss Sun is the counselor at the school, not a teacher that would make Harry want to come to class to learn and listen as long as she’d wear that yellow shirt every day. Her name, Harry finds out on the second day, when she pops into class to see how everyone’s doing is Miss Hayley Davis, which doesn’t fit her at all. She’ll stay Miss Sun in Harry’s head.

His teacher isn’t completely awful though. Mr. Flake is tall and his voice is deep, his hair’s a bit gray when the sun shines through the windows in the morning, and other than giving them homework every day, he’s okay. He doesn’t make Harry think of the sun and he doesn’t make his chest feel warm, there’s no color of falling leafs thumping in his chest when he calls on him for an answer. He’s more a cold winter morning, which isn’t bad, Harry guesses. He likes when the tip of his nose goes icy and red.

Besides, Niall is his sitting partner, so there’s no lack of sunshine during school. He was the only one Harry knew more than by name or face, from the times their mom’s got together and Harry and Niall were free to play football or watch their dads play guitar together. They don’t do much of that now, not since Harry’s dad moved to a different house to the other side of town. But Harry and Niall still get to play football on the weekends, except not they have to do their homework first.

Harry finds he doesn’t mind school. Being forced to recite the alphabet over and over again is making him dizzy, but not when he gets to copy the words from Niall, and art class makes up for getting homework. Almost.

But it’s the lunch breaks that are Harry’s favorite. Or he knows they’re everyone’s favorite, because none of the kids eat in the cafeteria, even when it starts to get cold enough for coats and scarfs, when they have to hold their sandwiches with gloved hands so they can watch and stare and awe.

The Wheeler school doesn’t have many rules. No running in hallways, no phones in class, no yelling, no fighting – Harry thinks those rules are in every school. But the one that they were told to be especially careful about is no abilities. There’s no one walking around on four legs or breathing fire in the hallways. Harry hasn’t seen anyone’s eyes glow or sparkle. Though he’d love to see someone fly in gym class or get their things out of their locker with just their mind, there’s not a whiff of abilities anywhere inside the school. And Gemma tells him that not all schools are so strict about that.

During lunch break, however, all the kids can run outside to the courtyard and do whatever they like, as long as they follow the rest of the rules. Harry finds that okay, because he wouldn’t want to see anyone fighting inside or out on the courtyard. The only downside is Gemma going invisible on him all the time, so Harry can’t pin her down to say hi during lunch. It’s been almost a month and he still hasn’t seen her in school.

There’s always a bunch of older classes huddled in a circle in front of the school, putting on a show, making a big spectacle of themselves and what they can do. Harry and Niall usually sit on the steps along the edge of the courtyard and eat their lunch while they _uh_ and _ah_ with their mouths full.

“What do you think that kid can do?” Niall asks, starting off their _Guess the power_ game before they even sit down.

“Run really fast.”

“Why do you always say that?”

“I don’t always say that,” Harry says, affronted. He doesn’t. “Okay, he can fly.”

“Pff, fliers are rare.”

“Yeah well, I bet he can.”

“Mhm.” Niall isn’t paying much attention to the circle forming, or the kid with bright blue hair he pointed at, too busy buttoning his coat tight and getting his hands on his sandwich to care, but Harry watches intently, the banana in his hand half forgotten. “Hey, could you, warm me up a bit? I’m freezing here.”

It is cold for October, unusually so, Harry can feel it in his toes, how the warmth from the past months is seeping away to make room for the chill and the rain. Autumn always tingles.

“Sure.” He lifts his banana and flicks his wrist from left to right, bringing a gush of warm wind to wrap around them. He did it on the second day, when Niall’s teeth were shattering and now Niall asks for Harry to conjure up a warm draft every day. It’s not a big deal though. “Good?”

“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Niall hums happily, biting into his sandwich.

“You should consider wearing a sweater under you coat instead of just a t-shirt.”

“Shush, it’s starting.”

“Niall..”

“Yes, I will wear a sweater tomorrow.”

Harry smiles with victory, feeling like punching his fist into the air because he likes having his way, but it’s shadowed by the show starting. Gemma said that it’s usually the younger kids from lower classes, the ones just starting school like Niall and Harry that participate, because they still think that powers are cool, but standing around the edge are older students, maybe even older than Gemma. Harry must not be the big loser she makes him out to be.

The kid Niall pointed at before is standing in the middle of the gathered crowd, Tyson something if Harry remembers right, a year older than them, an inch taller. But there’s something about him, something in his confident smirk and his blue hair that makes Harry doubt he’s going to develop premonition as well.

“Ready?” A boy shouts, short enough to be almost completely hidden by the tall heads around him.

He was the loud one, the one that made everyone applause on first day as he descended the stairs to join the class for line A, Louis. Harry doesn’t know how a first year ended up running the show this year, but it probably has something to do with the buoyancy of his voice.

Tyson nods. He spreads his feet out, bends his knees a little in a half crouch and says, “Hell yeah,” right before he claps his palms together to make lighting shoot out between his fingers and up at the sky. It looks pretty cool, especially because the bright purple lightning splits the sky for a second, blinding and shaking the ground. But he can’t fly, so it pales in comparison.

“That looks so good,” Niall says with his mouth hanging open, as Tyson keeps clapping. “Wow.”

“Kind of, I guess.”

“Easy for you to say,” Niall scoffs. “It’s what you do except smaller, and less important. It’s still pretty cool though.”

Harry agrees with a nod, waiting for the next kid to step into the circle. Niall goes back to eating his sandwich as they look at who is next in line, but Harry keeps his eyes on his palms. He wonders if he could do it, clap and make lightning spring from his hands, purple of white, but he guesses that it’s not how it works. Or it’s not how _he_ works. Harry could make lightning strike with a clap, but it wouldn’t come from his hands – he makes sure to remember that for later.

“Okay, what about her? I say she’s a shapeshifter,” Niall says, nodding at the girl that’s stepped up.

“Isn’t she your neighbor?”

“Yeah, and?”

“Then I say she’s a shapeshifter too.”

Niall looks at him sternly. “That’s against the rules.”

“There are rules?”

“There are now,” he says and they both end up laughing, neither knowing why. “Let’s just watch. She’s a lion.”

“Lioness?”

“I thought so too, because she’s a girl and all that, but she’s got a mane and everything. It’s so cool.”

“Oh, okay.” Harry’s only begun to realize that abilities have no limitations. Anne told him a good year ago that if he wanted to, Harry could turn rain into sunshine and he didn’t really know what that meant, because it sounded cool. Then he wondered if he could do it the other way around too, sunshine into rain. Or if he could color a rainbow out of thin air. The possibilities grew with each day. Harry’s just learning how to call on a wind that doesn’t just warm him up or ruffle feathers.

And true to Niall’s word, the girl starts shaking as soon as Louis steps back from the center, vibrating in a way that even Niall and Harry can see from where they’re sitting, but then it’s like she shrinks into the crowd while everyone oh’s and ah’s around her.

“Let’s go down here, I wanna see her in action.”

“But I haven’t finished my lunch yet,” Harry whines, his half eaten banana in his hand still.

“Oh just bring it with you, I swear you don’t want to miss this.” Niall’s already jumping down from the steps, running off and shouting for Harry to follow. He’s got no choice really, so he takes a bite and steps down carefully, not one to jump without breaking something. They make it past a couple of people quickly, following their eye-lines until they’re standing right there, in front of the girl that’s not a girl anymore.

Harry’s never seen anything like it. The girl is stalking around the inner circle of people with giant paws covered in think fur, a golden mane around her head and ferocious growls coming past her sharp teeth. She really is a lion. Which is what Niall said, but there’s a difference between imagining the endless possibilities and seeing one with your own eyes. Harry thinks about it some nights when he can’t sleep, about anything and everything that someone out there can do, can be, instead of counting sheep. There have to be more people like him, who can sense a storm coming and feel the sun in their chests even on overcast days, their fingers itching to pull the clouds away too. Gemma’s friend pulls at emotions like that, but not like Niall. Niall makes you feel whatever he wants, she just pulls the deepest one to the surface, the one thing you’re trying your hardest not to feel. She’s usually not fun to be around. And Harry has thought of others, of those that can fly and read minds and make the earth shake.  He’s just never thought about a lion girl walking around the courtyard of Wheeler school in Providence, Rhode Island.

“Wow.”

“Right? I remember when I first saw her, she was just walking in front of her house like that. It was so weird, but _so_ awesome.” Niall waves at the girl and murmurs, “Definitely better than clapping lightning,” close to Harry’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs, flexing his fingers. “I like that too.”

“They’re both better than what I’ve got, that’s for sure.”

“No,” Harry’s learned to be quick when Niall says something about his powers. “It’s not, yours are amazing.”

“Yeah, ‘s just too bad I could never show ‘em off like this.”

“Why not though? You could just-” Harry starts to explain, because he’s thought about this, how Niall could make the whole crowd laugh and everyone would love it, or Niall could just _make_ them love it. He could definitely make a spectacle out of it, but in the middle of trying to explain that, Harry swears his brain starts to melt. He doubles over with the pain, clutching at his head and then his stomach, because he’s sure he’s about to be sick all over himself, when it stops as quickly as it came and he can breathe again.

“What was that?” His ears are ringing.

“No need to applause, I know, I know,” Louis is saying from where the lion was standing not a minute ago. “You’re all lucky I didn’t over do it. Or you know, you’d be bleeding brain.”

There are noises of disgust heard all around and someone chides Louis quickly and effectively, “Are you crazy? Never do that again.” But Harry is worried, because Louis doesn’t look like he was joking . Not entirely.

“Okay, who’s up next?” Louis goes to ask, as everyone else is either checking their pulse or trying not to vomit.

“That was insane,” Niall whispers, but when Harry turns his head to agree, Niall is smiling as wide a he’s ever been. “Talk about awesome abilities. He can literally force you to _hear_ what he can do.”

“I mean, I guess, but that’s not really nice is it?” Harry’s half way defending the right to not hear someone’s sonic scream without at least a warning, because it must go against some rules he’s sure have to exist, when Niall’s eyes widen and he’s shaking his head.

“What about you? What’s your name again?”

Niall coughs into his fist and looks down as he says, “Niall,” more to himself than anyone else.

“And what can you do Niall? Wanna show us?”

“Naah, I’d rather not, it’s nothing special.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Louis leers, smiling with his sharp incisors showing. Harry’s surprised he’s not a lion too.

“Believe me. But Harry here,” Niall says, making Harry want to dig a hole for himself. “He’s got something to show.”

“Let’s see it then.” Louis makes a motion with his hand, as if the makeshift stage of a courtyard is all Harry’s, when he wants nothing but to run away.

“Um…” Harry wants to feel angry, he really does, but the only feelings he can pinpoint are enthusiasm and happiness, which, looking back to see Niall giving him a thumbs up, aren’t Harry’s doing. “Okay, well…” He comes to stand right in front of the first line of onlookers, not really in the middle of the open circle, not really anywhere close to it, when he flicks his wrist like he did before, to bring a rush of warm wind around the group, warming up their cheeks and hands.

Louis brings a hand up to touch his face with a small smile. “That's it?” he asks, and Harry knows what he means by it, the insult dripping from his tone.

Harry's ready to shrug but he feels determined now, like he could conquer the world, any world, no matter how far away. It makes him chuckle instead, because he knows what it feels like when Niall messes with his emotions.

He doesn't like doing it too often, because he feels like he's imposing on something that shouldn't be under his control. Sometimes, for his mom or when Gemma asks him politely, he brings the sun out from behind the clouds. Or he'll paint the sky a deeper purple, add more orange, and bring the clouds closer if they're really pretty, but other than that, Harry tends to stay away from the sky. Twirling wind around his finger is good enough for most days But he guesses a little something won't hurt anyone if he doesn't do too much.

Harry steels himself, takes a breath and a step forward. “No, it's not.”

“Well, by all means.”

Harry doesn't like Louis, he really doesn’t. Not his voice, especially not when it goes sonic, and Harry doesn't appreciate the pushing either. But it gets him moving to the center, where he's surrounded by kids his age and teenagers all looking at him closely, either waiting for a whisper of warm air again or for him to fail. Harry feels determined again, but now it's him, there's not a hint of Niall, because he's gonna give them neither.

He's looking straight at Louis when he feels it, like Tyson is holding his heart in his hands, sending electricity down to his toes and to the tips of his fingertips. He turns his face up to the sky and _feels_ for it beats above his head. There are looming clouds, it's an overcast day, typical for autumn when the sun is hidden away somewhere until Harry raises his hands, palms turned up and it's like someone turns on the lights, the seasons shifting backwards and it's summer again, the Earth spinning backwards to cath the sun as all the clouds roll away. There's an audible awe that spurs him on, because that's nothing, a sunny day is what he does for his mom's birthday, so he closes his hands into fists and opens his eyes - a loud thunder claps what feels like under his feet. There's wind, lightning, real, ominous lighting in the distance before all the shadows disappear, the sun long forgotten as the autumn leaves rustle on the ground with a breath of wind. It swoops them up into the air, brings the orange and red leaves closer to Harry until they start flying in circles around him.

It's easy to get lost in it, in bringing the storm to his hands from somewhere far away. A sunny day makes him feel warm, like he could smile for the rest of his life, but a storm makes Harry want more, like a spoiled child stomping his feet in the supermarket, it makes him shiver with heat in his stomach.

Harry leans his head further back, aiming his face to the sky, as the leaves dance to the tune of thunder he calls closer to himself. He hears something when the ground beneath his feet shakes, like a piercing echo trying to get to him, hit him and pummel him to the ground, until it feels like a warm summer day is playing in front of his eyes, spreading through his chest.

That’s how summer feels, like Harry’s chest has to expand to fit the season inside where Harry can keep it safe, but he can’t do that with a storm. He couldn’t contain it like that, so it thrums in his fingertips, always right there on the edge, just a breath away.

But it's the red, the brighter-than-anything hot red light flying in front of his eyes like a blaze of glory wrapping him up in its arms that makes Harry open his eyes right before he makes a cloud break in half. It’s fire. The leaves around him are on fire and closing in on him, getting closer and closer until he has to _stop_ , because the eyes looking back at him are blazing in a blinding blue.

When Harry takes a breath, lightning strikes again but the wind eases up, the clouds drift away from the sky, losing their dark shadows as they get smaller.

There's a boy standing in front of him with fire in his eyes, burning and beautiful, but it’s like a fiery sunset Harry can’t keep his eyes off of, because with the orange and the reds, there’s a tinge of blue in the flames, like a sky on fire, until the boy blinks t Harry and the fire dies down to a flickering ember.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his breathing coming as quick as Harry’s.

“What?” The leaves are still circling around them, still on fire when Harry looks around and sees everyone's gone except for Niall's and Louis, but even they aren't standing as close as they were before. Harry spears them barely a glance though, because, “Your eyes.”

“You went a bit supernova on us,” Louis shouts towards them, but it isn’t sonic, just regularly louder.

“Isn’t that more of Zayn's thing?”

“Are you okay?” the boy in front of him repeats. He must be Zayn, the one with his eyes on fire. He lifts his hand and spreads his fingers, and then the leaves aren’t on fire anymore, just smoldering and falling to the ground at Harry’s feet.

Harry shakes his head. He's never done that before, never gotten quite so lost in himself. He lifts a finger and with a breath of wind, the embers from the leaves fly to the sky. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

“I'm Zayn, by the way,” he smiles kindly.

“I'm Harry.”

“I’m Louis,” they hear loud and clear from the side and then Niall shouts, “And I’m Niall,” up into the air with his arms spread out wide.

 

 

_July 2007_

Harry rings the doorbell once and then again, because the Malik house is usually loud on Sundays when everyone’s home. Either one of the girls could be fighting with another and that always turns into an event of screaming proportions to rival Louis at worst of times. Harry was there once, sitting on the floor of Zayn’s room while they plowed through homework together when a comb went missing. Doniya threatened to turn both of the girls into stone if they didn’t stop fighting, but Waliyha shifted into Trisha to make Safaa confess and even Harry remembered it wasn’t the best idea to make Safaa mad. Zayn didn’t joke about the Hulk being based on his little sister for nothing. In the end, Safaa was furious and it was up to Zayn and Yaser to calm her down – Zayn with a flickering flame trick and Yaser with his light. He got so bright that Harry dreamed about it for a week afterwards – what it must feel like to have so much power, to be so bright and magnetic.

Harry's house was never like that, never too full or too loud, with more people around you can remember names. If anything, it gets too quiet, like the square space his house stood on was stuck in stillness, in a virtual reality where noise didn’t exists. Gemma doesn't like showing herself when she's home or in school or anywhere else and Harry gave up on finding her years ago. He hasn’t really, he just knows better now – if Gemma doesn't want to be seen, then not even a fresh batch of her favorite cookies will bring her out of her invisibility cloak.

And Anne gets lost in their backyard sometimes, either repotting plants over and over again, watching them grow, making the vines climb up up up on the side of their house until only three walls are left visible and it looks like their house is a forest, like it’s been abandoned in medieval times, overgrown and hidden behind thousands of small green leaves. Harry found her sitting in the middle of their yard once, right on the grass with her eyes closed and a small smile spread on her lips as she angled her face towards the sun. Anne sat there for two days.

Harry spend those days at Zayn’s, because Malik's aren't like that, they don't let each other be invisible, they don't get lost or worry too much, because there's always someone there to find you. Usually it’s Yaser with his bright light, calling you closer like a lighthouse.

It's him who ends up answering the door with a loud, "Harry!" and a pat on his shoulder, but it’s never good when he answers the door. Harry prefers when Trisha does it, because she takes him straight to the kitchen and gives Harry cookies and asks about school. Or Safaa, because she’s fun. Zayn would be ideal, but that’s happened once in six years that he’s been coming over. Harry has no idea what takes him so long to get ready.

Harry can't look anywhere else but at Yaser as he leads them into the living room. He doesn't think anyone can take their eyes away from Yaser, but that’s part of it Harry guesses, how his ability works. Yaser shines with a pure white light escaping everywhere around him, like his skin is glowing, his eyes, his smile. Like his skin has tiny cracks that let his light seep through. He’s a literal light-fixture in the house, the sun that made Icarus fly too close, a constant supernova. Or that’s how Harry sees it. And it's not like he needs it, what with his general good-looking-ness. But apparently, _that's inappropriate to say about your best friend’s dad_. Whatever, Harry can look at whoever he wants in whichever way he feels like as long as he doesn't get caught.

“Zayn's running late, huh?” Yaser says right before he sits down on the couch, getting back to watching the evening news.

“Yeah, he kinda always is.” Harry smiles weekly, trying to keep his eyes on the TV.

“Doesn't get it from me,” Yaser jokes just as Trisha walks into the living room with a dishtowel hanging over her shoulder.

“What are you trying to say?”

Yaser laughs, throws his head back with it and Harry thinks if this is the last thing he ever sees, he'll die happy. It's practically blinding how bright Yaser's face is, like he's the sun, the stars and every other celestial being all wrapped into one.

Harry hears Zayn jump down the stairs, but even when he says, “Hey, let's go,” Harry can't move. The world has stopped spinning so that it can look at Yaser, at his bright glowing eyes and the smile that could make Harry do anything it pleased.

“Harry,” Zayn grunts and grabs his shoulder, shaking him out of it. “Stop staring and let's go.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry stutters, he doesn't even know how because he swears he isn't breathing. “Bye Mr. Malik.”

“Bye boys, have fun.”

“Bye mom,” Zayn manages to shout just before he closes the front door and pushes Harry down their walkway. “You have _got_ to stop doing that.”

“It's not my fault,” Harry whines, because it isn't. It's not anyone's fault really. Yaser can't exactly control it, not since he met Trisha and his ability shifted – always on, always shining. It's by far Harry's favorite ability, there's just something about _being light_.

“Wait outside next time.”

Harry stops in his track, in the middle of crossing the street, because, “Rude.” But then he takes one look at Zayn, shaking himself out of being around Yaser, and sees the tight line of his shoulders, his downcast eyes and asks, “What's wrong?” because something is. It’s obvious.

“Nothing's wrong. Now come on, get off the road.”

“No.” Harry stomps his foot. “Tell me what's wrong.” He's quite firm with it, believable, even if he'd jump away at the first sign of a car.

Zayn scowls at him, not that it's ever worked on Harry, but he's not gonna tell him now. Harry can see him giving in. “I got into a fight with Wali, okay? Now move,” Zayn says and starts walking.

Harry shrug and follows after Zayn down the street. It's not a long walk to Niall's. They have a block and a half left and then a quick run through the park. Harry bets he could make Zayn laugh by the time they get to Niall's front door.

“What was the fight about?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I want to know.” Harry skips his way into step with Zayn and then he turns, manages not to fall and walks backwards with Zayn. “What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything,” Zayn mutters. He takes a second to weigh his options, because he can either tell Harry and get it over with, or Harry can tell Louis about it and they all know what that would be like. Zayn's smart though, the smartest in his class, probably the entire school, so it doesn't take him long before he says, whiney and annoyed like he always does when Harry makes him spill his guts, “She keeps shapeshifting into me. Even when I'm right there.”

“And...”

“And?” Zayn screeches. “And, it's disturbing.”

“So tell her that it bothers you and ask her to stop.” It might just be him, but he doesn't see the big issue here, not one worth scowling at him for anyway.

“You think I haven't done that?”

They stop right at the edge of the park, where some kids are playing on the monkeybars. A girl is hanging off the top bar, holding on with her hands and as they stand there, her torso starts elongating, getting longer and longer until her little feet touch the ground and she start giggling. Harry smiles at her, she smiles back and Zayn grunts at the entire thing.

“I think,” Harry starts, calmly, because you can't make Zayn listen if you rush. “I think you were bothered and then you looked at her,” he wiggles his fingers towards Zayn face, “in that way where I always think you're trying to set someone on fire with your eyes.”

“I told you, that's not how it works.” Zayn sidesteps a rock and sticks his hands in his jeans pockets.

“Yeah, but sometimes you wish it did,” Harry reasons. “Don't think I don't know.”

“Oh, cause you know me so well, huh?” Zayn asks and there's a hint of a smile in his eyes. Harry's getting through to him. He always does in the end.

“The best, better than anyone.”

“Even Louis?” Zayn raises his eyebrow in question, almost smirking,

“Yes, but don't tell him that,” Harry whispers and that's it. Zayn chuckles, shakes his head and takes the last step out of the park.

They cross the road quickly, running right up to Niall's front door where Harry's stopped from ringing the doorbell by Zayn's hand on his shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, with the smile that crinkles his eyes and makes the fire in them light up a little, like they could shine just as bright as Yaser if he tried. “I'll talk to her tonight."

Harry returns his smile and nods, happy to have helped. “Tell me how it goes.”

////

“You're not serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“You're lying. Are you lying?”

“Louis,” Niall breathes out, not really frustrated, probably just tired of repeating the same thing for the fifth time now. “Why would I lie about kissing Sam?”

“Samantha from your class?” Louis points at Niall and Harry, who wants nothing to do with this conversation. “Sammy Samantha?” Louis gives Niall the kind of look Harry would run away from, but then Louis just slaps his knee and congratulates Niall for becoming a real man.

“That's the standard?” It's Zayn that pipes up this time, but as long as he doesn't stop moving his hand in Harry's hair, he can do whatever he wants.

“What're you talking about?”

Zayn pulls on one of Harry's curls and smiles curtly at Louis. “Nothing, forget about it.”

“Anyway,” Louis says a bit too forcefully, laughing afterwards as they all cringe.

“Louis...” Zayn warns.

“What? It's part of who I am.”

“That's bullshit.”

Louis gasps, affronted and too dramatic for his own good. They've all noticed he's been getting worse since he signed up for drama club.

“Do you see me setting shit on fire everywhere I go?”

“Well...”

“I did that on purpose,” Zayn insists quickly. He doesn’t do it anymore, Harry wants to add. Zayn had a _stage_ , which Harry knows is normal, because Harry tweaked with the weather forecast for the entirety of November two years ago. He didn’t want to live in rain for a month, so he made it sunny. The consequences of having to live through Anne’s berating afterwards – grounding him for a month in December while he had to make sure it rained every single day, because the earth needed it – was a good enough lesson for him not to do it ever again. He doesn’t even want to think about doing it again. Trisha stepped in as well, when the smoke coming from under Zayn’s bedroom door reached her limit. He almost set their house on fire once, by accident Zayn explained, because he didn’t mean for all of his posters on his walls to _just catch fire, I swear I didn’t do it_ , when Harry was over his house once. Harry was just thankful Trisha was there to splash water over the walls, waterfalls cascading from her hands as she did.

“Mhm,” Louis hums though, all knowing and judgey. Harry makes sure to squeeze closer to Zayn where they’re sitting on the couch.

It’s the middle of July, that time of year everyone’s beginning Harry for overcast days and cold winds, ‘Do you think you could make it snow?’ Niall asked a week ago, and although Harry honestly wondered and Louis’ eyes sparkled with the idea, Harry shook his head and said a very firm ‘No.’ That night, the thought didn’t let him sleep, so he waited for two days, because he could feel a summer storm coming and flicked up a single snowflake, though it was more than a flick – he was drenched in sweat – and it definitely wasn’t just the one snowflake. But Harry would do much more to see Zayn look up at the sky like that again, when he ran over his house in the middle of the night to show him. Harry’s always loved summer, but he’s never been more reluctant to change the seasons back as he was that night.

It took a few years of nagging and pleading, offering all kinds of favors to Niall’s brother, but Greg finally relented and let them hang out in the basement of the house, where he was usually hauled up with his friends, who were much older and much, much cooler than _Niall and his group of kids._ It’s always been their goal, to just sit on the couch and play Greg’s video games and pretend like they’re any good at ping-pong and don’t just end up cheating all the time. They forwent playing darts since Harry almost threw one right at Niall’s head. But it wasn’t until recently, when Louis tackled Zayn on the couch –  just for fun he said, because he wanted to prove to everyone that he could, even if they insisted that nobody cared – that they found Greg’s stash of dirty magazines. They’ve abandoned video games and ping-pong to look at naked women stretching over tractors instead, guessing it was a kind of rite of passage they couldn’t pass.

“Do you think it really looks like that?” Louis asks with his face screwed up in question, frowning at the page he’s got open on his knees.

“Like what?” Niall looks over and his eyes widen.

“I don’t know… I just, never thought it would look like _that_.” Louis stays on the page for a second longer, like he’s trying to figure something out. They’ve been through the magazines backwards and forwards, but it’s lost its charm about two weeks in, which was more than a month ago. Harry and Zayn even made up names for them, _Stacey and Lindsay_ , the twins looking at each other on the double spread. Now it’s usually Louis who pulls them from underneath the cushions and Niall that reluctantly joins in with his questions, while Harry and Zayn play _Mario Kart_ and listen, look over once or twice when Louis turns the magazine their way, saying, “You have to see this.”

“This one though,” Louis whistles, ogling the photo and turning the magazine to show it to them, letting the flaps unfold until it’s three pages long, the entire girl fitting on it. “I like this one.”

“I second that,” Niall agrees, looking around Louis’ arms to see.

It’s _Courtney_ , the girl with long blonde hair flowing around her shoulders in see-through underwear – _lingerie_ Louis explained unnecessarily – with a tattoo of a dragon all along her thigh, wrapped around her leg from head to spikey tail.

Zayn shifts his eyes from the game to the photo, the tips of his ears turning red as he admits, “I don’t think I like any of them, but the dragon is sick.”

Harry grabs the magazine, pausing the game as Zayn whines, but looks closer too.

“If you’re gonna get that invested, at least use a bathroom. Honestly, Harry,” Louis chides, snorting along with Niall.

“Shut up, I’m looking at the tattoo.”

“Sure you are.”

“Show,” Zayn says, leaning closer to Harry so their heads are bumped together. It’s weird, having his face this close to a photo of a half-naked woman with Zayn’s face just as close, but it’s fine, it’s not like they’re focusing on the naked bits.

“It looks so good, look,” Harry points to the head because the eyes of the dragon are looking right back at them.

“The details are crazy,” Zayn agrees, tracing the body with his finger

“Are you two done fantasizing about tattoos? You know that’s not how these work, right?”

“Shut up,” Zayn throws back. But he leans back into the couch, controller at the ready, so Harry guesses he should just close the magazine and hand it back, but he wants to flip through it again, look for any other tattoos the girls have.

There’s an audible ruckus coming from upstairs when they all settle back, Louis and Niall hunched over a different magazine. Niall looks up at the ceiling just as someone yells, “Going to the mall,” and they all hear the front door close. There’s a moment after that they all sit in silence, no one moving or speaking or even breathing as they listen for the car to start and pull away from the driveway.

As soon as it does, Niall and Louis both jump up, the papers flittering to the floor from their knees. They look at each other with the same expressions of glee and mischief, exclaiming, “Beer,” in harmony before they jump over the back of the couch and each other in a mess of hurried limbs, trying to get to the kitchen as soon as possible.

Zayn’s laughing at the game, shaking his head, but it’s easy for him to find them amusing, because he doesn’t mind the taste of beer like Harry does, turning his nose up at the bitterness. He doesn’t want to say it, but the bubbles hurt his throat.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” Zayn says then, noticing Harry’s silence. “No one’s gonna force you.”

“ _You_ ’re not gonna force me, Louis on the other hand…”

“Nah,” Zayn bumps their shoulders. “I won’t let him.”

“Aren’t you nice.”

“I am, thank you.”

“Hey, um,” Harry starts. He doesn’t like talking about this in front of too many people, because they tend to ask questions, especially Louis, because Niall just gets this weird look, but Harry doesn’t like that just as much. Zayn gets it though, knows how abilities sometimes affect people or the ones around them. “Do you want to come by later?”

Zayn gives him _a_ _look_ as well, but it’s not so much confusion or worry as it’s understanding. “Your mom gardening again?”

 _Isn’t that all she does?_ Harry thinks bitterly, because it is. It’s been a harsh summer, even if Harry makes it rain a bit harder some nights, pulls the clouds an inch closer to the sun so it wouldn’t be so intense, but she always gets like this during summer, taking care of her garden, of her plants, of the life outside instead of the one inside her house. If Harry’s alone, Gemma going out or pretending like she isn’t there, invisible as soon as she walks through the front door, he finds himself sitting by his bedroom window looking down at their backyard, at Anne sitting barefoot on the grass with her legs crossed, her palms spread flat on the ground, grass sticking out between her fingers.

She talks to them, takes care of them, makes sure everyone’s getting enough shade and sun, drinks enough water that’s in constant flow from their garden hose. It gets unnerving, but Harry sits and watches. He can’t fall asleep knowing his mom has been in the garden for two days straight without taking a break.

“Yeah,” he sighs, dropping his head down, because he never likes thinking about her like that.

“It’s okay, I’ll call my mom later, tell her I’m staying over.”

“Thanks.”

“Harry, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is though, isn’t it?” he asks, quieter, more contained, because he’s not sure he wants to let go of his thoughts so easily. _It is a big deal_ , he thinks, but not in that way where his stomach turns uncomfortably. It does make feel a bit sick though. “She shouldn’t be so…”

“Look,” Zayn cuts him off before he manages to think of a word. “There are bigger deals than your mom taking care of her garden. It’s her ability, right? She’ll be back tomorrow.”

It’s sound logic, because there are bigger deals, of course there are, and because he’d rather think of anything else, Harry counters him with, “Then name one.”

“What?”

“Name a bigger deal. If you do, you get to pick the movie tonight.” It’s meant to be a game, and Harry’s already making a list of _I barely get to see my sister,_ and then _I_ _never_ _get to see my dad anymore_ , and _your dad is way too good looking for you to be annoyed with me_ _when I can’t stop staring_.

But Zayn isn’t smiling at him to accept the challenge like he usually does. It doesn’t look like he’s making a list of his own. He bites his lip and looks down at his hands, his fingers intertwined in his lap. He takes a breath, deep and slow, and it’s making Harry worry.

“Okay, but you have to promise not to tell.”

Harry pouts. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Promise,” Zayn insists, the fire in his eyes flashing.

“Okay, I promise I won’t tell.”

“I, um… I haven’t kissed, um, anyone. _Yet_.” Zayn’s bright red as he says it, even the tips of his ears coloring up hotly. It makes Harry think of last summer, when they went over to Maya’s house for her birthday and seven minutes of heaven later, Harry had his very first kiss in the small closet beneath the stairs and good thing there wasn’t a light in there or Maya would’ve seen how Harry’s face was burning up.

“That’s – it’s not a big deal,” Harry shrugs, because it’s not. Or it doesn’t have to be. He thinks first kisses aren’t meant to be forced. His mom would say it should be _organic_ or something like that. Anything she said would make Harry scoff and think she’s right.

What he says makes Zayn scoff. “It is.”

“No it’s not.”

“It is to _me,_ ” Zayn insist, getting louder and waving his hands about, so it makes Harry take the bait.

“Why?”

“What do you mean _why_?”

“Why is it a big deal to you? It’s not like it’s important.”

“Yeah, you can say that, because you’ve already kissed someone. Everyone’s already kissed someone.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“You, Louis. And now Niall.”

“That’s everyone?” Harry teases even though he knows he shouldn’t, because Zayn doesn’t laugh like he thought he would. It’s apparent that to Zayn, having his first kiss is a big deal. And by relation, it’s a big deal to Harry too now. “No but think about it. There are a lot of people in our class that haven’t kissed anyone yet.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“Well,” Harry tries to think of someone fast and ends up saying, “Tommy,” just because he’s fairly sure.

Zayn looks at him with wide eyes, like he’s ready to burn the whole house down. “Tommy’s got those braces that go around his head! He couldn’t kiss anyone even if wanted to!”

“Okay, fine, fine.” Harry’s trying to think of someone else from his class, maybe from Zayn’s class, but he’s just not sure how often his classmates have make-out sessions with each other. And then it’s like a light flips on with the most brilliant idea he’s ever had. “What about – and hear me out, okay?” Harry cautions. “What if I kiss you? Or, I guess, you’d be kissing me in this case, wouldn’t you?”

“What?”

“What?” Harry pauses his hands in midair, fingers sticking out this way and that as he tries to explain, because the look on Zayn’s face isn’t one of agreement and excitement.

“Why would you – Harry – that’s so stupid,” Zayn huffs, burring deeper into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest, but he keeps flicking his eyes to Harry.

“It’s not stupid.”

There’s a second that drags on as it passes where they don’t speak, just look at each other – Zayn with doubt while Harry tries to smile wide in return. He hopes he has some persuasion tricks along with his regular ability.

“We’d just kiss, no big deal. And you wouldn’t be able to complain about it anymore.”

“It wouldn’t even count.”

Harry frowns. “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” Zayn throws his arms out again. “’Cause you’re my best friend? And you’re a boy…”

“That’s got nothing to do with it. A kiss is still a kiss.”

“It’s not like you want to kiss me.”

“Zayn.” Harry shakes his head, disagreeing completely.

“Harry, come on…”

“Can I kiss you?” Harry cuts Zayn off before he can finish that thought. It’s a brilliant idea. Zayn would get to kiss someone and it would be Harry, which means it would be with someone that likes to think they know what they’re doing. _And_ , Harry emphasizes with himself, kissing Zayn wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. He’s got pretty lips. Anyone would agree with that logic. Boy or not. He’s trying to figure that part out.

“Harry.”

“I’m not gonna kiss you if you don’t say yes.”

Zayn looks at him as another second drags on, before he bites his lip and nods. He keeps his eyes on Harry’s when he does it and the little burst of fire he can see makes Harry smile to himself.

It’s quick. Harry leans forward, puckers his lips a little and presses them tenderly against Zayn’s, holding the hinge of his jaw, lingering for a second before he leans back with a, “Hmm.”

“What?” Zayn touches a finger to his lips, frowning. “What?”

“I don’t know, I though… I thought, I guess I thought you’d taste like fire?”

Zayn looks at him like he’s grown an extra head, but he’s falling over himself in the next second, laughing and snorting in a way Harry’s never heard him do before. It makes Harry snicker to himself as well.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

“You thought I’d taste like fire,” Zayn gasps through his words. “Harry.”

“What?” he whines, it’s completely logical. Of course Zayn would taste like fire, something hot and spicy, not like mint gum and orange juice.

That night, they build a fort around Harry’s couch and watch _Ghost Rider_ again. Zayn says he’d like to have a motorcycle when he grows up. He thinks he could set it on fire while he rides around town, look just like Johnny Blaze.

Harry keeps thinking how Zayn doesn’t taste like fire after all.

 

_November 2010_

Louis came up to them a week ago, whining about, “this boy in my gym class, you should see him, he’s so…” and ending with a heavy and heart-eyed sigh. There have been past spectacles, because there’s really no other way to describe it when Louis gets a crush. Sighing hopelessly, memorizing schedules for stalking purposes, and a case of a love letter in _the wrong locker_ that taught all of them to never trust Zayn with an important task ever again – Louis had to run away from Taylor for a whole month afterwards, because who knew she’d feel the same way? – are just some of the things Louis will do when infatuated with someone. And Zayn’s still paying for the last mishap.

But now Harry senses a difference, because Louis isn’t coming up with any ludicrous plans before his crush can be made aware of Louis’ existence. He has been sitting in the cafeteria with his cheek on the table since they sat down and it’s the fact he’s doing it silently that’s throwing Harry off.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks that day, because he’s getting slightly worried. Louis’ never been quiet for this long. All Harry gets as an answer is another sigh. “Wanna talk about it?” A shrug this time.

“Wow,” Zayn murmurs under his breath, unamused, and almost loses an eye with rolling them so far back.

Louis is upright and pointing in the next second, spitting, “Don’t mock me,” so he must be fine after all. “You don’t get to mock my love.”

“Love? Please,” Zayn scoffs.

“ _Yes_ love.”

“You met him when? Tuesday?”

“For your information, it was last Monday.”

“It isn’t love.” Zayn doesn’t sound harsh, just bored and annoyed. It’s making Harry frown at him and then at Louis, because they don’t argue often, but when it happens it’s as confusing as it’s downright frightening.

Louis spreads his arms wide and makes sure to talk unnecessarily loudly. “Hold on everyone, we’ve got a love guru among us. So, tell me, _master of love_ , when and where will I meet my lucky fella?”

“ _Ha ha_ Louis.” Zayn’s getting shifty in his seat.

“No no, please, don’t hold back. I want to hear your words of wisdom.”

Zayn grunts, leans over his mashed potatoes and continues to eat as if nothing ever happened. _Confusing_ , Harry quickly decides. It’s what Zayn does when he’s confronted. He closes his eyes and pretends like he’s not there, as if he has Gemma’s power, and it makes the problem go away on its own if he ignores it. Harry’s usually good at bringing him back, making him open his eyes and see what’s staring right at him, but today he’s not feeling up for it, because sometimes it can be as difficult as setting fire to the rain.

So Harry asks, “What’s his name?” instead, to try and divert the entire situation.

Louis sighs again. He’s gonna have to stop doing that if he wants Harry to take him seriously. “Liam.”

“Oh, he’s the transfer kid, right?”

“Yeah, I asked around,” Louis explains, and it’s never good when he starts a sentence with that. “He moved from Boston during summer break, but no one knows why. He lives down the road from Niall here.”

“Hey,” Niall acknowledges, but doesn’t do much else and goes back to eating his lunch soon after.

“He’s into sports, on the baseball team actually. And I know, I know, it’s awful. But he’s _so_ _good looking_ ,” Louis whines the words, as if they weren’t bad enough by themselves. “Harry, you should see him with his top off, it’s insane.” Louis waves at his own torso. Harry can imagine what it is he’s talking about.

“Thanks, yeah, I’ll do that,” he says, only half joking. “What’s his thing?”

“Oh, he’s a healer.” Louis’ so proud to say it, like he’s ready to explain ten years down the line when they move to a new house with their two kids and a neighbor of theirs says, _‘My wife’s a mind reader_ ,’ Louis would go, _‘My Liam’s a healer_ ’ while his eyes radiated love and affection.

It’s both cute and sickening.

“Did you, um,” there’s no good way to ask, so Harry just goes for it. “Did you feel anything when you saw him?”

Louis looks absolutely scandalized. “No? Do you think I should’ve? Should I scream the next time I see him to test it?”

Zayn snort at his food. “Oh yeah, melt his brain, that’ll make him love you.”

“I thought we established you were going to stop talking.”

“Louis, don’t be rude,” Harry says, eyeing both of them cautiously.

“He’s the one being rude.”

“I’m being realistic,” Zayn counters and because they are juniors in high school, almost ready to move out of their parents’ house and go off to college, a clear sign of growing up, Louis sticks his tongue out at Zayn and Zayn flips him off.

“Can you two stop?” It’s Niall that steps in finally. Harry’s never been more thankful for him. “It is kind of unrealistic to fall in love at first sight Lou, you know that. _But_ ,” Niall goes on just as Louis opens his mouth. “We’re all happy for you, aren’t we Zayn?”

They all turn their heads to see Zayn skulking at the potatoes, but he ends up shrugging and saying a quiet, “Yeah,” anyway, so Harry rubs at his back as a reward for playing nice.

“I do get it okay, I just… I think he’s cute.”

“Well, then don’t go –” Zayn starts to say quickly, like Harry isn’t going to jab his elbow beneath his ribs if he gets the words out fast enough.

Luckily, Louis was too busy blushing to hear what Zayn wanted to say.

////

It’s only a week later that they meet Liam.

“Boys, this is him.”

“Who?” Niall asks, looking up from the video game just long enough to see someone standing next to Louis.

They’re hauled up in Niall’s basement, now officially their full time hangout place because Greg went off to college and is suddenly too old and sophisticated to lie around on the couch all day. They’re not though, and since it isn’t a school night, they all met here, Maura letting them hang out as long as they don’t break anything. Again. But that was by accident, so it’s not likely to happen again.

Harry has to admit that Louis’ absence was more than noticeable at first, what with all the peace and quiet and the ability to play video games without anyone shouting and throwing things at their heads, but as they played, two at a time with Harry mostly watching Zayn stealthily beat Niall time and time again, the fact Louis wasn’t there slipped his mind.

But now he is, and he’s standing in front of them with a tall and muscular boy next to him. Or half on him, Harry guesses.

“Liam. My soulmate.”

It’s the audible version of an atomic bomb, because everything goes silent and no one moves and it feels like it’s gonna be like that forever: Louis standing there grinning like a madman while Liam blushes from head to two, and the three of them sit on the couch next to each other with their mouths hanging open.

There are those people, lucky or not, depending on where you stand, who meet their soulmate young, a little clueless and their heart too whole to cry at a love song about loss. Harry's classmates from primary school were put together on a project, and next thing they knew, they both practically lost their powers. And Harry can't help but think how awful that would be, to meet the person you're supposed to be with when you're eleven years old, inexperienced and much too young to even know what it means. A match made in heaven that's supposed to tie two people together for a lifetime if you don't change your mind halfway through. But who would break up with their soulmate, right? Harry doesn't think there's anything wrong with it, because he doesn't want to know what his favorite song is without hearing it first. He doesn't want to love without feeling his heart break a little first, over someone he won't even remember in twenty years. He doesn't want to know how he'll die or when, doesn't want to walk into his surprise birthday party only for someone to come jumping out from behind the couch before he even opens the door fully. It ruins half the fun, makes it all pointless. And never having your hear break doesn't sound that bad, but Harry believes in love and in soulmates, so if he loses some of that love in the meanwhile, in the time it takes for him to meet his soulmate, he won't be any worse off.

 

Knowing that it happens, that your perfect match is out there somewhere for you to find doesn’t ease the fact Louis is holding hands with Liam and they’re both smiling at each other in that way. The way that tells Harry they aren’t joking. They don’t _think_ , they know it, it’s true.

“Congratulations,” he manages to say with his suddenly dry throat. “And hi, I guess. I’m Harry.”

Liam jumps where he’s standing, muttering about manners as he shakes all of their hands with, “I’ve heard so much about you all.”

“Really? Because we’ve never even met.”

“Zayn,” Harry hisses. The tone Zayn’s using doesn’t mean anything good, and Harry knows he has to nip this before it can escalate into something Liam isn’t ready to see. And it’s better he do it than Louis. “Be nice.”

“Whatever,” he grunts back, crossing his arms and scowling at Louis. It’ll do for now.

“How did you, you know, find out?”

“Oh, well we had gym class on Wednesday and I sprained my ankle – Harry I’m fine, don’t look at me like that. Anyway, Liam was kind enough to fix me when his powers went a bit wonky.” It’s weird to see Louis talk so energetically about someone standing right next to him, holding his hand and by the looks of it, not planning on letting go.

“Did you lose it?” Niall asks, intrigued.

“It um,” Liam starts shyly, scratching at the back of his head. “Got really strong.”

“He didn’t just heal me, he probably gave me a couple extra years of life.”

“Wow, that’s…” Harry doesn’t know what to say. _Great_ , would be an understatement for meeting your soulmate.

“And you?” Zayn says, more controlled now, but not at all happy.

Louis looks at Zayn, must tell him something that only their eyes can understand, and says, “I lost mine,” with an air of sadness that he can’t quite contain.

“Louis,” it feels like they all say it together, even if it’s Harry speaking. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nah,” he waves them off. “I’m fine. I can still go a little sonic, just nothing that could melt brains.”

Before Louis can finish speaking, Zayn’s already standing up and Harry’s trying to stop him before he takes the first step, because he’s either going to hug or punch Louis and at this point, Harry doesn’t know what’s going on in Zayn’s head.

They all have their own thoughts about it, whether it’s worth it or not, the whole soulmate thing. Niall says that if it’s destiny then it’ll happen no matter what, if he actively tries to find his or not. Which is a healthy attitude to have when there are people that never meet theirs, drifting by life without their perfect match. People like Zayn don’t care. No matter how much convincing and arguing Harry has done with him, Zayn doesn’t budge on the idea of simple happiness. _It’s not important who it is, you know, as long as you’re happy_. Which is stupid. Because Harry wouldn’t ever want to settle. Harry’s going to find his soulmate and they’re going to be perfect for each other and they will be happy, thank you very much, and in love and all that. He wants to feel the shift when it happens, when they lock eyes or touch for the first time, maybe kiss, maybe Harry’s going to spill a drink on them – no surprise there – and know that it’s where he’s meant to be. Harry wants that surge of _knowing_ and feeling your power adjust because you’ve finally found who you’re supposed to be with, the Romeo to your Juliet, the Jack to your Rose, Noah to Allie.

Harry is unconvinced of Zayn’s intentions until he crashes into Louis with a hug that dislodges him away from Liam. They stand there wrapped around each other, mumbling against their ears too quietly for Harry to hear just long enough for him get jealous and have to squeeze up to Niall to make up for it.

They end up playing ping-pong, Louis and Liam against Harry and Zayn, because it’s the closest to another pair of soulmates they can get on short notice according to Niall. They would argue, but Louis started spitting curse words at them since the game was mention as a part of his, “intimidation tactics,” whatever that means.

Louis and Liam lose, which does actually surprise them.

“I’m trading you in for a better fit,” Louis threatens, but when Liam goes pale, Louis is already making it up to him with a disgusting display of affection they all turn away from.

“Okay, if you’re gonna continue with that,” Niall waves at their general direction without actually looking, “Then you need to go to a different room. Preferably in your own house.”

“We’ve got a date tonight actually. Liam’s taking me to the movies.”

Zayn snorts a, “Good luck,” and Niall warns, “He’s gonna be louder than the movie.”

“Why am I friends with you two?”

When Harry is about to take the compliment with a genuine smile, Zayn looks at him and winks, so it’s his fault that Harry says, “Liam, I’m really happy for you. Just know we have a no-return policy on Louis. Once he’s yours, you can’t give him back.”

So it’s with an exasperated groan from Louis and a slightly worried chuckle from Liam that they leave, right before Zayn yawns and Niall throws them out as well.

////

“The weather’s a bit gloomy tonight, wouldn’t you say?” Zayn asks, sweet and innocent, like he’s throwing out a random observation after passing through the park and seeing the overcast sky above them. Harry looks over at him and Zayn’s waggling his stupid eyebrows.

But it is gloomy, the clouds illuminated by the moon and nothing else. It’s like they’re drawn on the dark canvas of the sky, standing out like those pop-outs in the books Harry remembers he used to love. Even if Zayn didn’t say it, Harry would’ve done it, but since he asked politely in his true Zayn way, Harry agrees with a hum. “I don’t know, I think it’s gonna clear up.” He lifts his arm at his side, rotates his wrist so that the sky clears up, chasing the clouds away.

Zayn bumps his shoulder. “Much better.”

He keeps his eyes on the clouds, not just the way they slither away, but disperse on all sides of the sky, falling behind the horizon until it’s like they were never there, the moon hanging up there alone. “It’s crazy right?”

“What is?” Zayn asks. He must’ve been watching as well.

Harry waves his hand around, this time with no power behind it. “The whole Louis and Liam thing.”

“Ah yes, _that_.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Zayn,” Harry says, because it’s not. Anything Zayn wants to talk about, Harry does as well, but it’s the things Zayn wants to keep quiet about that make Harry push a little, just to see what’s going on in his head. It’s rare for those thoughts to see the light of day. “What is it?”

“It’s just –” Zayn starts, but then he must change his mind, think it over while he bites his lip and distracts Harry for the time being, until he continues with, “It’s not so much crazy as it’s weird to see it happen, you know?”

“What, Louis actually finding someone that’s supposed to tolerate him forever?”

It makes Zayn smile, but only in that distant way he does when he’s just about ready to disappear with a sure promise to never come back again. It’s probably Harry’s least favorite smile of his. “I think we’re all gonna have tolerate him forever.”

“True.”

“I just never thought about meeting someone and knowing like that. Because you _know_ , just like that.” Zayn hums to himself, and Harry’s sure there’s something he’s not saying. “It’s weird.”

“Your parents are soulmates though, aren’t they?”

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Don’t they ever, I don’t know, talk about how it was for them? Like what happened and how it happened?”

The memory must come back to Zayn, of being told what is was like, because he chuckles quietly and says simply, “Dad lit up like a bulb when they met, so there wasn’t much more to it.”

“That’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” Harry teases, wiggling his eyebrows like it’s a joke.

“Can you please stop crushing on my dad? It’s creepy.”

“Have you seen your dad? I can’t be held accountable.”

“Gross.”

Harry shrugs it off. They walk down the road until they get to the bench that’s opposite Zayn’s house. It’s where he makes Harry wait for him to come out of the house when Yaser is home, saying he doesn’t appreciate the look on Harry’s face. Or the fact he stares and drools all over his dad. Harry can’t help that he can’t seem to close his mouth around Yaser, or be drawn to him like a moth, an innocent bystander to his light like it’s calling him home.

They sit down, like they usually do when it’s early enough and it doesn’t feel like it’s time to go home yet. Not quite.

“You still stuck on the soulmate thing?” Zayn asks, wrapping his arms around himself, because even if the days of July are hot and sweaty, the nights can get cold without the sun out. So Harry moves his fingers, one after the other until the wind picks up, bringing warmth, wrapping itself around them pleasantly.

“I’m not _stuck_.”

“Aren’t you though?”

“No,” he’s shaking his head, “I’m just set in my ways.”

“So you’re stuck,” Zayn says, poking his tongue out with the tease. Harry wants to bite it off. Or not off, maybe just bite it.

“I just want to feel it, that’s it. You’re the one that’s stuck.” Zayn frowns and grunts at him, like he’s ready to quip a smart remark, but Harry beats him to it before the night can get too grumpy. “Don’t you want to be like your parents? Light up like Yaser did?”

“Well, I guess, but I don’t want to set myself on fire.”

“Maybe you’ll lose it like Louis did.” _Or Trisha_ , Harry thinks, but doesn’t add. She didn’t lose it completely, that almost never happens, but it’s usually how it works. One gets all the power while the other’s dwindles to the point where they learn to live without it. Sometimes they both lose it, sometimes both get intense, enhanced and crazy, bubbling over the brim. It’s rare; Harry’s never met a pair with loose powers like Yaser’s. “Or maybe you’ll set everyone on fire. Don’t you want to experience that?”

“We all do,” Zayn agrees. “But it doesn’t mean I won’t be happy without my soulmate.”

Not everyone finds theirs. Some people think like Zayn, happiness and committed love being enough. They don’t search for their perfect half, their soulmate, the power shift that tells them _they’re the one_. It’s an inkling feeling, Harry remembers someone telling him one day. _Your eyes meet and you feel like your power is on the tips of your fingers, as if it moves all over you until it settles and you_ know _._

And Harry wants that. He’s not stuck, he’s romantic. He doesn’t want to fall in love with someone that might not be perfect for him, then get married and have two kids and be happy until he’s not. Because that can happen, people can change their minds or they can meet their actual soulmates ten years down the line, get divorced and leave, without realizing Gemma wouldn’t want to show herself for months and Harry would worry if it was something he did. Not enough sunny days, too much rain, too many clouds.

“Well I’m gonna wait. I’m gonna hold off until I meet him.”

Zayn smiles at him, small and slow, because he knows why Harry has his heart set, he knows why Harry can’t be with anyone else _but_ his soulmate. Anything less just won’t do.

Clearing his throat like he’s breaking the moment, Harry says, “Can you imagine losing your powers though? Wake up one morning and nothing?”

“You get to be with your soulmate though.” Zayn doesn’t turn his head and Harry doesn’t either, doesn’t want to, but he can feel Zayn eyeing the side of his head. “That counts for something, right?”

“Um…” Harry bites his lip. He feels how dry it is, chapped because of the weather changes that follow him around. “I guess.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the hopeless romantic here? Anything in the name of love and all that?”

“It’s just… That would be awful,” he whines. “To lose everything like that?” He doesn’t fail to notice how Zayn’s face falls, so he adds, “Who’d make your days sunny?” to fix it.

“I couldn’t breathe fire anymore,” Zayn agrees with a burst of laughter right after Harry looks at him as if he’s said he could fly. “Yeah, I don’t think I can do that.”

“But you’ve never tried?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You could try,” Harry suggests nonchalantly, but he’s putting it on the list of things he absolutely has to see. A flier, without a doubt, is also one of them.

“I’d rather not, thanks.”

“Zayn,” he whines when Zayn gets up, because that means they’re going home now and he’s going to run out of time to convince Zayn. “Don’t be a party pooper.”

“I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t just say that.”

“You’re really going home? Just leaving me like this?” Harry throws his arms out, practically throwing a tantrum as Zayn turns to walk away from him backwards so that he can grin at him. “I hate you,” he sings when he gets up as well.

“Good night, Harry.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Harry grunts and then because he can’t help himself, he shouts, “Good night,” as well, waving Zayn off like he doesn’t care, but he still stands there to wait for Zayn to cross the road and jump over the two stairs leading up to his front porch. Harry stands there until he sees the light in Zayn’s bedroom turn on. Zayn comes to stand at the window, hands on his hips, like he knows Harry has to say, “And I don’t hate you,” before he can go home.

He huffs when Zayn nods and walks away from the window, and stops the wind, feels the fresh air bite at his exposed arms. Looking up at the clear sky, he starts walking and pulling the clouds back in. If they’re fuller then they were before, no one has to know.

 

 

_April 2012_

Anne is crying. She’s hiccupping loudly, like she can’t contain the ugly sound of happiness that’s bursting from her lips as Harry stands in front of the mirror, ignoring her and fixing his bowtie. There’s a handkerchief pressed against her nose, her eye and then her nose again, a camera hanging around her neck, waiting to pounce the moment the doorbell rings.

“You’re so handsome,” she stutters and if she wasn’t smiling the whole time, Harry would be more concerned, but he can understand the feeling, he thinks, that’s overflowing from Anne, as if he’s a sunflower she’s making grow in the middle of winter.

“Thanks mom,” he answers dutifully. He’s nervous, touching the bowtie again, the buttons on his suit, his lapels. It’s not a big deal, not like he imagines it was when Anne was his age and slipping into a pristine and what he imagines must have been a puff of a dress the color of freshly cut grass. It’s not a _big deal_ , Harry doesn’t need to put his head up and smile, breathe through it or something equally ridiculous. But the sound of Anne wiping her nose doesn’t make Harry feel better. “Wanna take a photo before Calvin gets here?” he prompts, because he knows she needs distracting. He’d sent her to the backyard if she’d come back in five minutes.

“Yes, yes.” She jumps, walking backwards until Harry fits into the frame from styled curls to his shiny new shoes. “Smile.”

It probably looks fake, mouth wide open and teeth showing, his eyes tired from staying up too late last night. But it’s not, he is happy, he looks good, this should be recorded for a later time, because Harry’s going to want to remember tonight. _Prom night_ , he thinks, just as the doorbell rings.

Louis had begged for a limo since the end of summer, insisting it’s _their_ _night_ , that they should splurge, _live a little_ and typical things he says to try to get them onboard with his plans. In the end, they all go separately with their own cars or their parents’ cars or like Zayn and Niall, they pick up their dates together and decide to walk down the road to school where the gym’s been transported through time, all the way to the glorious eighties, with a disco ball hanging from the ceiling and strobes of neon flashing from the lights set around the space.

Calvin picks Harry up and Anne takes the photo of them standing in front of the house, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, Calvin’s tie matching the color of Harry’s bow. Anne offered to drive them, because Calvin lives practically adjacent to the school, but he insisted it was the proper thing to do. Harry blushed, just like he did when Calvin stopped him in front of his locker and asked him to be his date for the prom. They have a couple classes together, so Harry knew who Calvin was – the tall captain of their baseball team – and he remembers winking at Calvin during a game once, he knows he did, but he didn’t think it would lead to them walking into prom together, hand in hand.

“Do you want something to drink?” Calvin asks as soon as they’re standing under the flashing lights, people already crowding in every corner.

“Yeah, thanks.” It’s awkward, it is _so_ awkward. During the five minute drive over here, Harry’s tried to think of something to ask Calvin and besides, “So you play baseball?” he hasn’t come up with anything. Not yet. He will though, by the end of the night, Harry will drink a bit of the punch that Louis will hopefully spike as promised and he’ll be full of interesting questions Calvin will jump to answer. Harry is absolutely sure.

But for now Harry just watches as Calvin moves to the side of the gym for a second, as soon as someone jumps on his back and derails him away from the punch though, Harry sighs and starts looking around to jump on someone back as well. There are puffy dresses, skimpy ones that make Harry’s eyes linger and fitted suits – some too big, too tight or fitting perfectly, like the trousers Louis is bending over in. Harry promises to himself to never have a similar thought again in his life and walks over to the table instead. Walking closer to Louis doesn’t help his new resolution.

“Harry!” It’s Niall that jumps up from his chair and crowds around Harry until he’s completely wrapped around him. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

“He found my flask,” Louis cringes apologetically.

“Is there anything left?”

“What’s happening?”

Harry turns around with an arm full of Niall, towards the voice, and he blushes for the second time tonight. As far as perfectly fitting suits go, Zayn’s is top level, all black and tight over his shoulders, but Harry knew it would be either that or slightly too big, and he’s happy Zayn has decided in everyone’s best interest. There’s a simple back string tied around the collar of his white shirt. Harry holds Niall a bit tighter so as to not stretch over and fiddle with the ends of it.

“Niall’s drunk,” he says, smiling happily, because the nerves jittering in his stomach are melting away now that he’s no longer confined in a car with Calvin.

“How are you drunk already?”

“It’s Louis fault,” Niall says, pointing his finger in the opposite direction of where Louis is standing with his hands on his hips.

“How is it my fault that you couldn’t fucking wait?”

“Louis.”

“Don’t start. I am _not_ exaggerating this time,” Louis snaps at Liam, but as soon as he turns around to snipe at him again, he must change his mind, walking over and falling into Liam’s arms much more gracefully than Niall did into Harry’s.

Which reminds Harry… “Okay, come on, you’re sitting down.”

“But you’re so comfortable,” Niall murmurs into his shoulder.

Harry groans. “I swear to god Niall, if you drool on my suit –”

////

Harry’s takes two steps back and Calvin matches him, taking two steps forward, then to the side, left and right, rolling their arms at their sides and waving them in the air, smiling giddily at each other though that has an air of Niall mixed to it, so Harry doesn’t think it has anything to do with dancing to the Bee Gees.

They’re a good fit, or maybe they’re just good dance partners, but after drinking some of the barely spiked punch and taking small sips out of Calvin’s own flask, Harry flitted off to the dance floor when the clapping and the drums of _Rasputin_ started playing and Calvin followed, smiling at Harry as they fell into step together. And it’s been like that through _Daddy Cool_ and _Like a Virgin_ , twirling and laughing, bumping into Louis and scowling at Niall when he felt a surge of _something_ burn in the pit of his stomach.

While everyone was dancing, Niall was making out in the corner with Barbara, probably the prettiest girl in school if Harry remembers those kinds of things right. Louis said Niall had to fuck with her brain to get her to do it, but even with the general mood of the gym being in its height, Harry doubts Niall is making Barbara giggle in his neck like that. Niall’s a bit too drunk and still disbelieving she said yes when he asked to prom to do anything but keep himself close to her.

And it’s not like everyone is dancing. Harry might have his back pressed close to Calvin, but he can see a group of guys sitting around their table, pretending to be immersed in their conversation while their eyes keep skipping over to the dance floor. And all the teachers are standing off to the side, too busy talking with the chaperone-parents to notice how the students are dancing dirtier with every song, falling over their own feet or throwing up in the bathroom. Poor Samantha.

And then there’s Zayn. Last year around this time, when everyone was hoping to get asked to prom by a senior, because that was a _big deal_ , Zayn was already complaining, swearing he wouldn’t go next year, no matter what. Harry likes to think that with months of persuasion, sweet promises of fun and a drunk Niall – delivering on all parts, he thinks happily – he managed to convince Zayn to show up. Though it might have had something to do with Jordan, the second prettiest girl in their class, because she talked Zayn into going as well, since they’re boyfriend and girlfriend and all that. Harry didn’t exactly get the points she was making about dancing and romantic and everyone going, but if she did have something to do with it, he’s just happy she got Zayn to come.

Not that he’s dancing. And neither is Jordan. Harry might be twirling around on Calving finger, but he can’t miss the sight of them, sitting slouched over in their chairs, smiling at each other every time their eyes happen to meet. It isn’t the fun Harry was talking about, but it’s also not Harry’s fault, because Zayn _doesn’t dance_. He would bet good money that Jordan wanted to join everybody to twist and turn a little, but Zayn down right refused, crossing his arms and scowling at her long enough to make her suddenly change her mind. Zayn did what he does best and was an asshole until Jordan refused to dance as well. No one, but especially Zayn, likes being alone in their misery.

It might be the fact Calvin keeps leaning closer to Harry’s face even though the slow song is over and they’re back to jumping around, making a fool of themselves and not caring who sees – as long as no one takes a photo of it, but when he does, Harry has to shake his way away, turning his back on him until Calvin’s stood an inch from his face again and Harry has to repeat the dance routine.

He doesn’t want Calvin to kiss him and he doesn’t want to kiss Calvin either. Harry just wants to dance and laugh and feed off of Niall’s high for a night. He wants to not think about Anne sitting in the backyard or finding his soulmate or how Calvin isn’t it. It might be all of those things combined that make him shimmy to where Louis and Liam are waltzing around to _It’s Raining Men._

“Let’s go to the pitch,” he gasps, breathing heavily while still trying to keep his rhythm.

“Why?” Louis whines, but Liam shrugs and says, “Okay,” dragging an only slightly protesting Louis along.

“Niall!” Harry shouts, nodding his head towards the exit and miming batting a ball to him. Niall throws him a thumb up, so it only leaves one.

“Hey.” Harry approaches their table carefully, eyeing them both up and down to determine the mood. “Um, we’re going to hang out on the pitch if you want to join?” Harry tries to look at them both, but he ends up focused on Zayn when he asks, because as much as he’d like to, he isn’t inviting both of them.

Zayn clears his throat and he’s trying not to look at Jordan as well. The look he gives Harry isn’t any better. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.” He smiles, at both of them this time, because he isn’t completely rude and runs off. He doesn’t want to, but he still hears Jordan’s, “We need to talk.”

////

Niall’s in the middle of explaining, in painful detail, what he and Barbara were up to while the rest of them danced. “Man, her lips. You wouldn’t believe,” Niall starts again, because he’s described Barbara’s lips a dozen times since they’ve sat down, comparing them to pillows and bed sheets – thankfully he’s not passionate about studying literature – when he’s interrupted by Louis’ loud, “Zayn, you’re here.”

Zayn huffs and looks around their circle, at Niall lying on his back with a dopy grin on his face, at Louis sitting with his beck pressed again Liam’s chest and then lastly at Harry smiling up at him, because he did overhear Jordan and he knows what that look on Zayn’s face means. Harry could probably count how many times Zayn ran his ringers through his hair – enough to have it flop down on his forehead. Then he sits himself down too, in between Harry and Niall, with another huff and puts his head in his hands.

“She broke up with me.” It makes them cringe and Harry doesn’t know why he didn’t say something to them, to prepare them so that they wouldn’t just be sitting there with twisty grimaces on their faces while Zayn doesn’t even look up at them.

So he guesses that it’s up to him, but then all Harry comes up with is, “I’m sorry,” because he never liked Jordan. With studying every day and most of the night to keep his GPA up and then for the SATs – though Zayn let Harry sit quietly next to him while he read a page over and over again, willing himself to remember every single word scribbled on it – and spending time with Jordan, Zayn didn’t have a lot of time left to spend it in Niall’s basement, to just hangout.

Harry thinks quick and adds, “What happened?” because Zayn may want to talk about it, and if he doesn’t he can sigh and Harry will just change the subject. Maybe he’ll talk about how Calvin is probably looking for Harry, or how he’s hiding from him.

Zayn doesn’t sigh though, it looks like he isn’t breathing at all when he lifts his head and looks at Harry, pleading him to understand or to not mock him or a mixture of both. “She said it’s because I didn’t want to dance with her.”

“Zayn,” Liam coos softly. He must be the only one who understands though, because the rest of them are frowning, looking at each other for help.

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I just… I don’t dance. And she thought I didn’t want to dance with _her_.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out. He thinks he gets it. “She thought you didn’t want to be with her anymore. Right?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“But you did?” Niall asks. His head is angled away from his body where he’s lying on the ground, but he still looks more confused than in any pain. He’s going to feel that tomorrow.

Harry would’ve never guess Zayn was going to say, “Not really, I guess,” then, with a sigh of relief, as if he’s just having his first taste of freedom, which is ridiculous to think, because he’s been dating Jordan since his birthday, which is no time at all. Definitely not long enough to feel imprisoned by another person, and Harry knows that feeling. The sense of confinement, restriction and obligation that follows as soon as someone asks, _Wanna go out with me?_ and you say, _Sure,_ because it sounds nice and not at all like they’ll call and text the next day, setting up another date and the one after that and the one after that. Harry never answers those texts, doesn’t pick up the phone. He wonders if Calvin’s going to send the, _I wanna see you again_ , that always makes him feel especially bad for ignoring it. It’s nice, but that’s all it is.

“Good for you then.” Louis lifts his flask, somehow magically full of something that Harry can smell all the way from where he’s sitting.

“She looked so… I don’t know. Disappointed?”

“Also good,” Louis interjects. “Means she actually liked you.”

“You’re not helping,” Harry says, because he knows Zayn would’ve much rather ended it on a happy note, using going their separate ways for college as an excuse for not making it work in the long run, like Harry knew he had planned. “Are you okay?”

Zayn smiles at him, says, “Yeah, thanks.”

“I still think we should be celebrating.”

“Doesn’t have to all be bad,” Liam shrugs apologetically, because they all know Louis has been rubbing off on him since they started dating, which means Liam went from being polite and shy, to pranking and missing baseball practice, which Harry can’t imagine happened before he met Louis.

They fit though, more perfectly than Harry’s ever seen soulmates click with each other, and the fact they’re the only soulmates he’s had a closer look at doesn’t factor in. When Louis inhales, Liam breathes out to make room. Liam injures himself in a game and Louis swears feels a pinch in his ankle for the next week even if that’s not how it works. Louis loses his sonic scream, but he doesn’t care because he has Liam, and like the rain falling down in front of the sun, Harry likes to think soulmates make rainbows arch over the sky. Unlike him and Calvin, or Zayn and Jordan.

“I didn’t want to hurt her feelings,” Zayn starts his long winded explanation that Harry doesn’t really need to listen all that carefully to, because Zayn never wants to hurt anyone’s feelings and he wanted for it to work, he could’ve been happy with Jordan – Harry could talk instead of him, because he’s that predictable. So as soon as Zayn leans back on his hands, Harry shift until his head is propped up by his thigh, a bit bony but still comfortable.

“Think about it this way. If you were still together, that would probably hurt her feelings as well.”

“I guess.” Zayn doesn’t sound convinced, but he scratches Harry at the nape of his neck in thanks. It’s all he wanted.

“Happier thoughts though,” Louis smiles widely, turning to look at Liam proudly before he announces, loudly and boisterously in his true Louis way. “Liam got accepted to St Joseph’s.”

“Congratulations,” they all say in one, whooping and smiling. Harry, Zayn and now Liam all got their acceptance letters already, so now they’re just waiting on Louis and Niall to have a toast on their success.

Liam blushes and hides behind Louis a bit. “Thanks.”

“He’s really happy,” Louis says instead of him. “Karen’s still crying probably and you should’ve seen my mom go on and on about houses and apartments and weddings. That woman…”

“Weddings?”

“They want grandkids too,” Liam nods at Harry. “A boy and a girl, though my mom wouldn’t mind two girls.”

“I miss Barbara,” Niall says, looking off to the side.

“It’s it a bit early?” Zayn asks, and Harry can hear his frown.

“Why?” Niall sits up suddenly. “Do you think I shouldn’t go find her?”

“You should definitely go find Barbara,” Harry smiles at him, and then he feels himself blush, butterflies erupting in his stomach without reason. “Niall,” he chides.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m going.”

They all watch him stumble back to the school, until Louis says, “I don’t know, is it?”

“You’re still in high school.”

“We wouldn’t have kids _right now_.”

“Don’t you want to finish college first? Have jobs and all that?” Because that’s what Harry would want if he was already with his soulmate. He’d want it to be just them for a while, dates and staying up late to talk and getting drunk and walking around Roger Williams Park because it’s beautiful this time of the year, as the sun starts to gain strength, lingering up in the sky and awakening the cherry trees as it does. He’d want to feed the ducks old bread and run away from swans because they’re monsters disguised in white feathers, but it’s worth it if he gets a photo kneeling next to one. No rush, no pressure, just being together until it would feel right and he’d have his own restaurant and they would live in a house not too far away from Anne so she could help out. Harry always wanted to live on Hope Street. He likes the way it sounds – a house on Hope Street that’s stuck in that time between spring and summer when the air is pleasant and nights are cool and there’s a rainbow stretching from one side of the backyard to the other.

“Sure, in a perfect world,” Louis says as Liam shrugs with a quiet, “Probably.”

They look at each other for an ominous second and do that thing where they talk with their eyes, as if they both have telepathic abilities, arguing with their mouths closed until they reach some sort of consensus and Louis smiles, because he always gets his way, even without muttering a single word.

“Probably,” Louis says, “we’ll see,” and leans back into Liam, who, with an exasperated smile that screams _love_ to anyone that listens, wraps his arm around Louis’ waist.

Harry closes his eyes when Zayn rubs his thumb behind his ear, settling further into the grass when the touch lingers and his finger moves along his jaw. He opens his eyes and sees Zayn smiling down at him. “You tired?”

Harry feels himself out, smacking his lips once, twice, and stretching his legs up into their air, first the left and then right, wiggling his toes in his new shiny shoes. He’s comfortable, warm in his suit that’s getting more wrinkled and stained the longer he stays lying down, but Zayn wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t tired himself, so with a slow blink of his eyes, which Harry thinks is only half convincing, he drawls out a quiet, “Kind of.”

////

It’s actually just as warm out as Harry thought it was, but he might be drawing in a bit of an unaware summer breeze, or maybe it’s Zayn, because he’s learned a couple of tricks in the past years, like how to keep himself warm with a fire kindling right beneath his skin, the kind only he could feel unless Harry got close enough.

After Niall left to find Barbara again, they stayed on the pitch for a while longer, spread out underneath the clear night sky, talking about next year, about chapters closing and being unnecessarily sappy even for prom night. Louis was right, of course, so instead of making each other melancholic about something that hasn’t ended yet, Harry and Zayn listened to Liam’s soft murmurs without hearing what he was saying to Louis. It was probably something just as sappy, but Louis wasn’t fighting it anymore. He rarely had anything to say when Liam spoke to him like that, quiet and right against his ear.

Liam and Louis left, walking with their arms wrapped around each other until there was a loud yelp from behind them and Liam had a Louis on his back, piggy backing to Liam’s house, which was in the opposite direction of where Harry and Zayn’s were going. They laughed and Harry pretended to jump on Zayn’s back as well, but then Zayn actually caught him by his thighs and held on to him until Harry swore he heard the seams of his suit tear and the fun was over. But it could’ve just been the fact that Harry was getting dizzy from their closeness and he didn’t want to say anything.

They keep bumping their shoulders as they walk now, or Harry is doing that on purpose, he’s never really sure when it comes to Zayn, because Harry’s found himself consciously taking the space next to Zayn on the couch, the chair next to his, the lap of his legs, because it’s right there and Harry knows how comfortable it is. It’s not though, because Zayn’s legs are bony, so his knees are always digging into Harry’s ass. There was a time years ago when Harry could sit next to Zayn without thinking about getting closer, when a hug was just a hug because they hadn’t kissed and Harry didn’t think about it while lying in bed late at night, as soon as he woke in the morning or during random parts of the day. Lather, rinse, repeat, except there wasn’t a way Harry could scrub away the image of Zayn sitting there on the couch opposite him with his eyes closed, nodding and letting Harry be his first kiss. If Harry could travel back in time that would be the moment he’d be returning to. It would be one of those memories he just couldn’t let go of, no matter how old or battered it got, how he remembered it down to the very last detail – to the mint and orange juice. It would be his safe place, a better time if everything went to shit, which, if Harry was a time traveler, he imagines it would, because he’d mess it up and do it wrong. Harry would go back to that Sunday, but he’d do it properly if he could and maybe that’s the reason he keeps brushing his hand against Zayn’s. Maybe he wants an excuse to do it again now, without being someone else traveling along in a different universe.

“Do you want to, um,” Zayn starts when they bump hips this time. “Do you want to come over? It’s still kind of early.”

“Sure,” Harry agrees without a second to think. He’s always preferred Zayn’s house to his own – too quiet, too still.

“I’m home alone.” Zayn’s eyes shine when he says it, like it’s a good thing, like he doesn’t know the main reason Harry likes it so much is because of the constant noise, constant movement and creek of the walls. He won’t forget the first time he heard the door slam shut when Waliyha stormed off to her room after Trisha told her off for picking on Safaa again. Harry felt giddy with it for the rest of the day.

Harry smiles back at him for a second, but only for a second, because he thinks of something, quickly does the math in his head even though he’s never been good with numbers that didn’t involve a recipe. “Did you… did you invite Jordan over?”

Zayn laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. “Doubt she’s still coming.”

He did. Zayn invited Jordan over because he’s home alone and she’s his girlfriend, _was_ his girlfriend and you’re meant to spend prom night with your date not your best friend who can’t get over  the one time you happened to kiss years and years ago.

Instead of pointing that out, because Harry doesn’t think he’d be doing anyone any favors with it, he shrugs and nods, trying to seem sympathetic and not slightly too happy that the night turned out this way.

They stop at a crossroads, wait for a car to pass and walk down the street to get to Zayn’s yellow and green house. Harry always thought they should’ve moved, exchanged their houses – brick for colorful walls. Maybe that way Anne wouldn’t cover theirs in leaves and branches. Maybe she would’ve left them alone and bare.

They let the silence linger until they stumble through the front doors, limbs over head in a race to take their suit jackets off before the other. No one wins by the time they’re sitting on the couch, their jackets neatly hanging on the hooks by the front door.

“We’re not watching it again,” Zayn says, shaking his head at the bulky television box.

Harry tries pouting, but Zayn’s completely ignoring him, so he whines, “Come on, you haven’t seen it start to finish yet, this could be the time you don’t fall asleep,” instead.

“It’s boring.”.

“Oh, ‘cause those Marvel movies are _so fun_ , huh?”

“At least they’re not about _fashion_ ,” Zayn scoffs.

“ _The Devil Wears Prada_ is _so much more_ than just fashion,” Harry says. He’s said it before, explained for what felt like hours and he’ll do it again, Zayn knows he’ll do it again if he has to, because Harry likes to think he’ll go through the same ups and downs once he’s looking for an internship and then a job. The turmoil, the horrible boss that grows on you, the one person who has your back even if you have no idea what you’re doing – Harry wants that. And until then, he’s going to make Zayn watch the movie with him.

“No.”

“ _Zayn_.”

“Absolutely not.” Zayn shakes his head again and holds the remote closer to his chest, like it’s one of his favorite toys – the Thor he never let Harry touch because Zayn said he always _always_ breaks everything. But his eyes are sparkling, like he’s enjoying this, like he wants to see what Harry will do, because they do this too. They argue about innocuous things, but it’s usually in front of Louis, because it annoys him that he’s not part of their fight as well. They don’t do it because Harry likes it when Zayn gets heated up, when his eyes glaze over with a fiery shine and they don’t it so Harry can feel the heat radiate from Zayn’s skin. They aren’t doing it for that now, picking arguments when they’re alone in Zayn’s house, like which movie to watch. But maybe they also are and maybe it’s gotten much, much more fun since Harry started playing dirty.

Harry leans forwards with his eyes on Zayn’s and he doesn’t mean it, but he doesn’t exactly _not_ mean it, because he’s only human, as he slips his hand alone Zayn’s knee and higher up his thigh, saying, “I’ll make it up to you,” low and husky. It flusters Zayn enough for Harry to grab the remote from him with a victorious, “Aha!”

Harry’s already searching for the movie when Zayn murmurs, “That wasn’t fair.”

“Why?” Harry smirks over at him. He doesn’t enjoy this as much as he puts on. It’s something watching Zayn blush when he’s embarrassed, but Harry can’t help but prefer the blush that would spread over Zayn’s chest. He’d prefer seeing that as well.

When he started thinking about Zayn like that, Harry doesn’t know. He also doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that.

Zayn groans, like he does when Louis is so set in doing one of his ridiculous plans that not even Zayn can get to him. Like he does every time he gives up. He crosses his arms and sits back into the couch as far away from Harry as he can get.

Harry also doesn’t know when he started noticing the red in Zayn’s cheeks, how his face would burn up every time he whispered something close to his ear, pressing his lips against the shell of it. He knew Zayn would agree to whatever he was saying like that, close and personal and rumbled deep in his throat. There was a time when Harry wrapped himself around Zayn’s back, hands holding his hips, chest pressed to his back and said, “You sure you wouldn’t rather go to the lake?” because he needed a majority vote on his idea and Zayn was the only one left undecided. The moment he practically melted against Harry with a sighed _yeah_ started it. Harry’s sure that’s why he does it. A little bit to annoy Zayn, but mostly to hear that breathy sigh again.

But he doesn’t do it as often as he’d like, because Zayn gets shifty afterwards and sometime during last summer, it stopped being as fun as it got Harry flustered too. Harry doesn’t know when it happened, when he stopped looking at Zayn like his best friend and more like someone he wants to kiss. Kiss again, which may or may not have something to do with it.

But it wasn’t the kiss. Harry likes kissing as much as anyone, he likes kissing in general, getting close to someone, taking their breath away, tucking the sounds they make as he bites their lip somewhere safe, where he can replay it, use it for when he’s alone.

It doesn’t matter in the end, because having Zayn sit so far away from him when Harry should be lying on top of at least half of him, busies Harry’s thoughts throughout more than two thirds of the movie, which means he’s missed all the really good Meryl scenes. And that just won’t do.

“Can you please just let me cuddle you?” Harry whines, having enough. This isn’t how they watch movies together. They always sit over each other and Zayn tries to cover up laughing at the funny bits when Harry puts one of his romcoms on, coughing into his fists like Harry doesn’t notice it every time he does it. Zayn might put up a fight, but they both know he likes the hopelessly romantic plots just as much as Harry does. Harry doesn’t judge though, because next time, he’ll get excited over the fight scenes he tried to insists are overly violent and completely useless, and Zayn won’t say anything either.

Now that Harry thinks about it, they haven’t watched a movie together, just them, in a while. It’s probably been a few months, and while Harry wonders if it was because Zayn was too busy studying or if he was busy with Jordan instead, watching movies with her, Zayn laughs and pulls Harry closer. He scratches his nails over Harry’s hair and just as he’s about to complain, they settle down and Zayn’s fingers go from scratching to twisting in his curls, just like Harry likes it.

“You were being really mean.” Harry’s missed so much of the movie, he can’t get his interest back up again. So he’s not going to let Zayn watch the rest of it either.

“Me?”

“Yes you,” Harry huffs. “You were ignoring me.”

“You’re the one that started it.” Which just isn’t true, Harry should point that out in a calm and collected matter, like maybe Liam or Niall would – definitely not Louis – but he’s in a mood tonight.

“I did no such thing,” he insists, twisting himself around until he’s sitting on the couch with his legs over Zayn’s lap. Maybe he’ll be tempted to give him a foot massage, thought that hasn’t happened yet. And Harry’s tried.

“You were teasing and you know it.” Zayn’s shaking his head and laughing quietly, like he’s doing it privately just to himself, but Harry still sees. He can see how Zayn’s eyelashes curve when he looks down at the feet in his lap as if he’s thinking it over, the possibility of giving Harry a foot massage finally. Then his tongue pokes past his lips and Harry’s always loved that, because usually it means Zayn can’t make his mind up and if that means Harry’s getting a massage, then that’s the reason why he follows the way Zayn wets his lips with his eyes.

“I was?” Harry doesn’t know why he’s asking, because he knows he was, so there’s no need to play coy. He did it on purpose and he’d do it again. He will do it again, as soon as he can, just not right now, because Zayn’s lifting his head and he’s looking right back at him and his hand is on Harry’s leg, so he might not get a massage but he doesn’t care anymore.

Zayn nods, once, slow, keeping his eyes where they’re peering right at Harry, as if he’s reading his mind, but he’s not. Zayn is fire and heat, he’s power and he’s always so warm. It’s why Harry tries to sit as close to him as he can, he manages to remember that now, so he scoots closer until his knees are bent over Zayn’s lap, but it’s good, he’s closer. They’re closer.

And now Harry can watch how Zayn’s eyes sparkle, glazing over with a lick of a flame, blazing with something Harry’s sure would burn the tips of fingers if he tried to touch it, but then he’s never known how _not_ to touch or feel or make the wind come from the mountains, not the sea. From up, up, higher than air corridors, higher than he can see.

He wants to ask what Zayn is thinking of. He’s always wanted to know what sets his eyes on fire like that, but when Harry opens his mouth, he whispers, “Can I kiss you?” that works just as well, because Zayn nods, clearly he nods even if Harry was being polite more than anything else, because he wants to know if he can fuel the fire, if he’s good enough to do that.

They look at each other for a passing moment, like they’re giving themselves an out, a _no questions asked, just walk away and we’ll forget this ever happened_ pause that lingers until Harry leans forward. He tries to keep his eyes open, because he wants to see it happen from a different perspective. Harry wants to sit on the coffee table in front of them, so he could watch Zayn’s reaction, how he moves to meet Harry half way, if his hands wander awkwardly through air before he settles them on Harry’s calves. Harry wants to see if his eyes change color, from orange to red to that deep blue that Harry hasn’t forgotten about.

But it’s not so bad from where he is sitting, because this way Harry can feel the heat radiating from Zayn, his cheeks pleasantly warm when Harry cups his jaw. He thinks Zayn’s breath hitches at that, but he’s not sure. All Harry can think about is how he’s going to kiss Zayn, again, how Zayn nodded and a small flame sparked behind his eyes. All Harry can think about is how he knows Zayn won’t taste like fire, because they’ve kissed already, but he still expects it.

He isn’t worried about getting burned or Zayn catching fire, spontaneously combusting in his arms, yet as he presses his lips against Zayn’s, Harry hopes _something_ happens. Maybe a symbolic candle lights up when Harry licks the seam of Zayn’s lips because they’re not thirteen anymore. They’ve both had other kisses after that time in the basement, when Harry wouldn’t admit his hands were shaking a little, the quickest peck Harry’s ever had, since Zayn’s first kiss. They’ve had plenty of other kisses, just not with each other. But when Harry presses closer, parts his lips and tentatively touches his tongue to Zayn’s top lip, he wishes there would be a sign, like a gust of wind or stray sunray shining through the window at half past midnight, because that would be… Harry can’t think of the word, the reason why he wants that to happen, because this isn’t their first kiss, so it should make Harry feel less giddy than overwhelmed, but he can’t help smiling into it as he presses himself closer to Zayn. It may not be their first kiss, but Harry’s going to make it count. He’s going to light that candle himself if he has to, because it’s Zayn and Zayn isn’t just someone in the closet underneath the stairs.

The living room window is open and that’s perfect, because as Harry starts climbing into Zayn’s lap – all awkward limbs and eager groans – he can flick up a gentle warm breeze to make it better, to make Zayn’s heat mix with his own. In a second, the air in the room is sticky and hot, hotter than it ever should be.

Zayn’s blushing with the fire kindled underneath his skin when Harry takes a good look at him before he kisses him again – not as soft, less patient. Zayn allows it for a minute, sighing when Harry messes up his hair, but then he pulls away, laughing out, “Harry.” It could mean stop, but Harry doesn’t want it to mean anything except, _please go on, do that again_.

“What?” His breathing is quick and Zayn won’t stop laughing. “What is it? You’re ruining the moment.”

“Harry,” Zayn says again, holding Harry’s face with his hands as he does and it feels like summer’s got a hold on him. It’s easy to lean his head to get closer to it, but then there’s a spark of something else running through his fingertips when Zayn asks, “Do you want to stay over?” in a soft whisper, his eyes practically shining with that bright blue light that makes Harry straighten up.

Harry’s stayed over more times than he could count. Every time Anne said she was going to be in the garden if Harry needed anything – he’s learned a long time ago to never need anything when she gets lost – he ran over to the Malik house. Moving was always difficult after Trisha’s dinners and declining offers of a bed just upstairs even more so. But Zayn’s never asked while Harry sat on his lap with his lips bitten red.

Instead of whining out a _yes_ too enthusiastically, Harry kisses him again, which defeats the purpose only when he grinds his hips down. “Upstairs?” he asks, saying the words into Zayn’s neck, because he doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but he doesn’t want to tiptoe around it either. Harry’s never been good at walking on the tips of his toes anyway, always falling over at the first step.

Zayn’s hands move down to Harry’s waist, gripping tightly and without a single groan, like his mind has been set for a while, Zayn says, “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Harry is off his lap, grabbing Zayn’s hands. “Let’s go.”

With the sound of Zayn’s laughter, he drags both of them up the stairs and to the second bedroom on the left.

////

Zayn’s room is the smallest in the house. There’s a bed, a desk, a tiny closet and not much leg room. Harry would always insist they study on the floor together, because he couldn’t see Zayn all the way from the bed and being cramped together sounded much better than leaving too much room in between that Harry couldn’t reach over with his hand to just touch Zayn whenever he pleased. There’s a single batman poster on the wall, right next to the window, because all the others burned down that one time Harry tackled Zayn on the bed. Like they were dosed in gasoline, the single spark flying from Zayn’s fingertip lit them up in a blink of an eye and a puff of smoke. Harry’s instinctive reaction to bring a quick breeze of wind into the room, admittedly, wasn’t his brightest moment.

Air and fire don’t mix – lesson learned.

There’s no poster, no furniture besides the bed and Zayn lying on top of him now though, nothing but the grind of their hips and Harry’s pitiful whispers to get closer, to get off. But Harry would swear there are sparks too, flying all over the room, left and right, as Zayn groans and Harry takes his shirt off for him, because now is not the time for indecisions and second guessing. The less the amount of clothes, the better.

“You too, you too,” Zayn’s saying onto his lips and Harry’s shirt gripped in his hand, rucked up on his stomach. “Off.”

“Yeah, yes,” he agrees, how could he not, and nods, scarifying a moment worth of kissing to take it off. But seeing Zayn pant, his eyes on fire, Harry pauses, “Hey.” He ghosts a finger over Zayn’s cheek, following the lines beneath his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“What?” The whole room stills with Zayn’s voice, with Harry’s question. Maybe the earth stops spinning, Harry’s doesn’t know, but with the look on Zany’s face, it sure feels like it. “I’m –” Zayn waves his hands around, looking frustrated as his finger catches on Harry’s bare stomach. “Yes I’m sure, are _you_ sure?”

He’s looking at Harry with his mouth open slightly, and his lips are shiny, red, definitely the best Harry’s ever seen them look. His eyebrows are pulled together in a nervous arch. Zayn’s impatient, probably nervous, so Harry smiles to himself and shakes his head.

“I think we’re both pretty sure.”

“Good,” Zayn nods. “Great. Now get on with it.”

“With what?”

Zayn smirks. He’s never smirked like that at Harry before, like the filthiest thing is going through his head. Harry wants to go on with that, he definitely wants to exactly that, whatever it is.

“What you’re thinking about doing right now,” Zayn drawls slowly and Harry can’t pull him down fast enough.

Zayn bites his lips, pulls it into his mouth and Harry transcends to a different universe, where all he does all day is kiss Zayn, their lips raw and wet, never separating for more than to take a breath. They’re a mess. Harry’s the first to get rid of his pants, quick and clumsy as Zayn sits on the bed and watches, biting his lips and doing absolutely nothing to help.

“Harry…”

“What?” Harry’s biting his tongue as he shakes the pants off, folding them neatly at the knees and placing them gently over the back of Zayn’s chair. “Why are you laughing? What happened?” He turns around to see Zayn laughing and shaking his head where he’s perched against the wall, his legs spread out on the bed. Zayn’s still wearing pants, Harry thinks vaguely in the midst of the airy chuckles and crescent eyes that pull at his attention.

So as Harry gathers his thoughts again, he hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his underwear and pulls them down in one glorious move, shutting Zayn up in less than a second. He saunters over the two steps it takes to get to the bed, swinging his hips left and then right, before he’s straddling Zayn again, because Harry’s pretty sure he has a point to prove and if grinding down on Zayn while he bites the lobe of his ear will do it, so be it. But it does momentarily postpone what they were in the middle of doing, because as Zayn whines – this desperate sound that makes Harry throw the ones he’s gathered until this point out, because he only wants this one tucked away for later – Harry doesn’t want to get off Zayn’s lap to let him get naked too.

“Harry.”

“Yes?” he drawls, licking up his neck. He’s never done that before. Harry can’t say he’s never thought about it, what it would be like to lick at someone’s skin from collarbone to jaw, be so unreserved while in someone’s lap that he’d want to run his tongue over their skin over and over again, any space he’s be able to reach. So he does it again, sucking at the skin behind Zayn’s ear just because he’s thought of doing that too.

“Get off.”

“No.” Harry revels in Zayn’s raspy voice. “You deserve this.”

“Harry,” Zayn huffs again, trying to pick him up, but Harry doesn’t budge, just rolls his hips again and puts more weight into it. Zayn whines again, gripping at Harry’s hips like he wants to throw him to the floor as he whispers a quiet, “You’re gonna make me come in my pants.”

Harry licks his lips. Zayn sounds embarrassed, he’s probably blushing, not that Harry can see or will look up to see it, because he’s too busy sucking a bruise above Zayn’s collarbone.

“Fine by me,” he says before he bites down on the skin there.

“Harry,” Zayn says again, but it’s sharp this time, blazing hot, the word reverberating underneath his skin and Harry can feel it right on his lips, the moment his skin goes from warm to burning, as if Zayn’s setting himself on fire.

“Shit, okay, okay.” Harry relents. Getting a second degree burn wasn’t how he imagined tonight going, so he rolls off him to give Zayn room. “You were gonna have to take the pants to the drycleaners anyway.”

With his pants pulled to the middle of his thighs, Zayn stops to look up at him. “That doesn’t mean I wanted them to find dry come stains, Harry.”

He shrugs, spreading himself on the bed and hitching an arm beneath his head, so he can look at Zayn as he says, “Yeah, well, it would’ve been fun to watch you come like that.”

The temperature shifts again. It’s like Harry’s lying on the sun, not Zayn’s bed. It makes his blood boil, his skin itch, his thoughts go blurry, and he swears there’s a literal flame in Zayn’s eyes as he stands there, as they look at each other, letting Harry’s words sink in.

“Fun?” Zayn’s pulling his pants off again, tugging them past his ankles and throwing them at the wall without taking his eyes off of Harry. It doesn’t look like he even blinks, just walks over and crawls on top of Harry, stopping when his ass reaches Harry’s knees.

“You’re gonna show me fun?” Harry’s trying to be funny, but it’s hard to talk when Zayn looks like that, when his face is so close to his dick.

“Shut up.”

He does. Harry shuts his mouth, bites his lip and loses all sense of coherency as soon as Zayn’s hand slips from his thigh to the base of his cock, hard and achingly ready for release five minutes ago.

Harry’s been here before. He’s sat on beds, couches, a toilet lid once, stood against the wall for support with a pretty pair of lips around the tip of his cock, making him see starts. He’s been the pair of lips, had his knees bruised from the cold tiles in the gym’s locker room with an impatient hand in his hair pulling him closer. Zayn might’ve been too, but he’s less vocal about these kinds of things, tries to be more than just a quick fix, an immediate release that you don’t have to call the next morning.

But Harry’s never been _here_ before. He’s thought about it, dreamed it embarrassingly often, but he’s never had Zayn between his legs, licking the underside of his cock, tracing his way up to the tip with his tongue before he sucks his way down again. Zayn doesn’t make a nose, doesn’t slurp or hum, doesn’t take Harry deep enough to gag, but Harry’s still never been this close to tearing out of his own skin. If he had wings, they’d be ten feet in the air right now.

Zayn takes his time. He’s slow, uses just his hand for a while so he can kiss his way to Harry’s tense stomach, bite his hip, because Harry’s so easy for it. “Zayn…” he whines when Zayn presses the tip of his tongue against the tip of his shaft, licking the precome with is eyes closed. He doesn’t just see stars, Harry is catapulted into the black void.

“Good?” Zayn murmurs into his thigh, as he keeps pulling Harry off with his hand. He sounds so timid and careful that Harry would laugh if he could breathe, because he’s barely able not to come all over Zayn’s hand each time he even so much as thinks about what’s happening or the look on Zayn’s face, staring right back at him.

“So, so good.” He’s talking to the ceiling, keeping his eyes glued to the white paint, because he doesn’t think he can hold off with the image of Zayn jerking Harry off like this, his lips glossy from spit, red from the stretch, right there.

He knows he’s absolutely right when Zayn circles his tongue around his tip again, before he’s pulling Harry up by his hips, saying, “Come on, sit up,” as he manhandles Harry to sit against the wall with his legs wide open so Zayn can sit in the space between them and wrap his legs around Harry’s hips.

 But at least Harry can open his eyes now, even if his cock is left to lie against his stomach again, not needing much more attention than a long look to come all over himself. It would be embarrassing if Zayn wasn’t just as hard, if his eyes weren’t burning with a blue ember, like ice on fire.

Harry kisses him them, because he remembers he can and brings Zayn closer, because he needs them to be. They need to be kissing and they both need to come soon or Harry will combust.

“Do you want to –” Zayn asks in between looking down at himself and trying to keep his lips on Harry, and for once in his life, Harry doesn’t need explaining. With their chests pressed together, breathing in the same air, Harry licks his palm and while trying to deepen their kiss, to lick himself into Zayn’s memory, holds both of them together, his hand shaking and slick with spit and precome.

Harry pulls them both towards the edge with one hand on the small of Zayn’s back, helping him move his hips in time with his other hand, twisting and gripping them together. They’re a mess. Harry’s encouraging, “Yeah, just like that, so good, oh fuck,” Zayn on as he trembles in Harry’s lap. His breathing is erratic until it isn’t, Zayn barely has time to inhale before he stops breathing altogether, and Harry can’t keep his eyes off him, he has to watch.

He has to see the moment Zayn’s shoulders slouch and his nails bite into Harry’s shoulder. Harry twists his wrist again, pressing his thumb into the head of Zayn’s cock and watches Zayn’s eyes lose focus in a fiery turquoise, like a lagoon of fire as he comes over Harry’s hand, pulling him through it.

The moment, the same second Zayn inhales again, Harry bites his lip and hitches his hips into his own hand, once, twice, until he’s groaning into Zayn’s neck, tasting fire on his skin, coming over his hand and Zayn’s stomach.

Their breathing is a distant echo, the rustle of curtains Trisha’s had to replace one too many times, because they keep catching on fire, rippling through the room along with an easy stream of wind, brisk against their overheated skin. It was supposed to be a clear night, just the stars and the moon with a lone cloud illuminated on the sky, but Harry can feel the shift of air outside, can sense the clouds sitting in front of the stars as Zayn’s sitting in his lap, breathing hot onto his ear. There’s a tingle in his fingertips, but he thinks that might just be Zayn’s doing.

“I think you stopped breathing for a second,” he whispers. Their skin is sticky and too hot, clammy with sweat, the fact Zayn is still burning up isn’t helping, but Harry keeps stroking his fingers over Zayn’s back, waiting for an answer.

Zayn smiles at him. “It’s because I did.” 

They both laugh, small and tired, collapsing against each other.

“We should definitely do that again.” Harry tries for casual, but it’s hard to do while they’re naked and panting, trying to catch up with the calmness of the quiet house again. He has a vague understanding what he’s suggesting, because he wants to do it again right now, as they’re still panting and too tired to move – Harry thinks they could make it work if they tried hard enough. But then he also remembers how candles didn’t light up, how he’s still pulling in a breeze into the room to wash away the smell of what they just did, the same way he always has.

“Yeah?” Zayn leans away to ask. His eyes are back to their regular kindling ember without any hint of razor blue, the same way they always are.

Harry knows what he’s saying and how something, that click of shift or whatever people call it isn’t there, how he and Zayn aren’t meant to be. But maybe they can forget about fate and destiny for awhile, at least until Zayn’s still sitting in his lap. So Harry nods and says, “Yeah,” with a small smile.

“I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“What are you insinuating, Malik?” Harry pushes him further away, but his smile is growing wider and so is Zayn’s, who shrugs with a smirk and starts dislodging them apart further, but he isn’t quick enough. Harry grabs his hips and keeps him in his lap, so he can look at him when he says, “That was far from being the worst.”

“I know, it’s what I said.”

“It’s the _way_ you said it,” he tries to sound stern, but they’re both smiling like they can’t help it. It’s how it feels when Niall gets excited and starts jumping in the seat next you – you start jumping as well, with your arms above your head and a feeling as if your body has been taken over, because it has. It’s the same principle now, because as Harry tries to hide his smile in Zayn’s cheek, he just smiles wider, because he knows Zayn’s smiling just as wide. “Try again.”

Zayn groans, goes as far as to roll his eyes when he says, “You can make me stop breathing again anytime you want.”

“Anytime I want, huh?” Harry waggles his eyebrows, but then Zayn’s slapping at his chest and wiggling out of his grip. Harry holds on to him a little longer, so that Zayn doesn’t fall when he leans in to kiss him again, because he’s still in Harry’s lap and they aren’t thinking about fate right now. Not yet.


	2. How It Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this one!

_“I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.”_

\- Jandy Nelson, _The Sky is Everywhere_

_////_

 

_May 2014_

Harry’s never been good with paperwork. He understands that there are more sides to being a chef than just standing in front of a stove, calling out orders and schmoozing with the guests. He’s good on all three of those. That side of the coin is already in his pocket. But the managing part, the business part of the business Harry can’t get a hold on. Expenses and taxes, paychecks and renting fees have been flying over his head since the first day of classes, when Professor Rivera introduced herself. Harry’s pretty sure he knows what a ‘profitable bottom line is’ and he knows it’s the way to keep a restaurant open and working, he just doesn’t know _exactly_ what it means or how to get there. He definitely doesn’t know enough for the middle of May because exams are right around the corner and instead of standing in front of the stove in his boxers, he should be sitting in front of his textbooks. Or better yet, in Rivera’s class, since it’s eleven o’clock on a Tuesday morning.

Convincing himself that going to class on an empty stomach would be a disgrace for a culinary arts student, Harry’s cracking eggs against the edge of the sink and splaying them slowly on the hot pan, careful not to pop the yolk. He has a small zucchini and a couple tomatoes cut up into perfect cubes on the chopping board, a spatula in his hand and an apron around his waist with ‘fuck the chef’ printed on the front thanks to Louis. The eggs sizzle under his watchful eye, turning gold at the edges and as soon as they do, Harry maneuvers them skillfully enough to hear an echo of praise for his sunny-side-down technic.

It’s his specialty: filling breakfast foods. Or any kind of food that’s made in the morning and eaten on an empty stomach, because that adds to it, that satisfaction of your stomach’s persistent grumbling finally coming to a sound stop. And all thanks to Harry. Maybe it’s less his specialty and more his favorite meal to make. Dinners and quick light lunches have its perks, but Harry’s favorite thing to see is the sloppy morning smile around a bite of his food.

He’s whistling quick nothing notes to himself, listening to the squealing pitch of zucchinis and tomatos falling on the hot oil, when Sasha walks into the kitchen wearing his gray hoodie and what Harry’s pretty sure are not her basketball shorts.

Keeping his eyes on her as she walks towards him, Harry says, “When will you start wearing your own clothes?” and all he gets as a response is a hand around his waist and a kiss on the cheek.

“Did you make coffee?” Her chin digs into his shoulder as she speaks. “That smells delicious.”

Harry grumbles, “It’s back there,” but she doesn’t move, just puts more weight on his naturally unsteady frame. “And stop thinking about food that isn’t meant for you.”

“Why are you so mean in the morning?”

“Can you not yawn _directly_ in my ear?”

“Oh my god, I’ll just leave. Happy?” She spins away from him. Harry touches the vegetables with the spatula gently, shaking the pan and turning down the flame before he turns around to watch Sasha climb on top of the kitchen island. He’s had visions of having the stove there, pots and pans hanging above it, because it too bare now, just cupboards maneuvered into a square on the floor.

“Good morning.” He smiles brightly at her, but she doesn’t even open her eyes as she takes the first sip. Harry’s that roommate, the one that wakes up before anybody else and ends up making coffee for the entire house even if technically, Sasha is always the first one up.

“Mhm.”

They started looking for student housing early, as in before this time last year early, because Harry didn’t want to share a one bedroom apartment with five people and he didn’t want an apartment with leaky pipes and no heating for the cold winter Providence months that span longer than they should. They all knew that living at home was an option, that a bus ride or a cheap secondhand car was well in their stars since all five of them decided to stick to Providence, to a town they knew, a town they grew up in and around of. Just the thought of leaving home was hard, but not enough to make them actually stay in their childhood rooms and sleep on their Spiderman sheets, look out their windows and see the same old view. At least not for Louis and Harry, one house a constant buzz of people and little sisters, one too many to count, and the other a fortress of nothingness. Gemma moved out, found her own place down by the Pawtuxet, so Harry had no real reason to stay. And he tried to find it, he really did.

So after about a month of looking at apartments online and then Niall driving Harry and Zayn around to see them, to walk around the living rooms and inspect the pipes, to see how badly the wallpapers were actually pealing, what shapes the water left on the ceilings, they found their home. A house on the corner of Battey Street, a big house, one of those that gets to be too big when your kids move out and your grandkids don’t visit often enough. It’s a house for the kids that should live at home, but don’t really want to because it’s not cool, and their parents can afford it.

Sasha, their own personal clothes thief and Duke, the guy Harry’s seen twice up until now were the two that showed them the house last year and welcomed them back in September. They didn’t help carry their bags or boxes.

“Have a good run?” Harry checks his food over his shoulder and shuts off the stove. Everything’s as golden as it should be. He adds a bit of his own personal herb mix – rosemary, parsley and basil, all grown in Anne’s garden, and puts a lid over the pan to let the food soak up the flavors.

In the meanwhile, Sasha’s been explaining something, probably answering Harry’s question, but when he hears the, “I must’ve been going at least 200 this morning,” he knows he didn’t miss much. She keeps her feet dangling in the air, her solid thighs spread apart and the muscles in her legs practically vibrating as she nurses the cup close to her nose.

“It would’ve been better without the rain though,” she shrugs and keeps her eyes steady on Harry’s, winking and laughing when he frowns.

It wouldn’t have been, Harry thinks as he practically hears Anne’s _an extra snowflake means one day less of sunshine, remember that._ Harry does, so he crosses his arms over his chest and tries not to think about the many, many speeches he’s had to hear. “No rain, no sunshine.”

“All I’m saying is you could make it drizzle instead of pour every morning from six to seven, eight on the weekends.”

“That’s _all_ you’re saying?” They’ve had this conversation one too many times now, Harry’s sure he’s stuck in a time loop with no way out. He’s just going to have to keep reliving this situation for the rest of his sad, sad life. “Why don’t I make rainbows light your way too?”

She shrugs, smiling behind her cup as she says, “I wouldn’t complain, like I didn’t complain about the noise last night.”

He can feel a blush creeping its way up from his chest, so he ducks his head down before she notices, not that Harry could ever be fast enough for Sasha. They weren’t that loud. Sure, he thinks he can remember a possible play fight on the kitchen floor where Zayn pinned Harry’s hands down and then smirked when he felt Harry unmistakingly go hard in his jeans, not doing anything else about it, because they’ve been awkwardly dancing around the subject since it became a subject to dance around. They might’ve also sung a round of karaoke, but Sasha can’t blame them for crooning along to Adele at one on a Monday, or technically Tuesday morning, high as kites, with their t-shirts off. Harry’s still confused about that part.

 “Anyway…” Sasha looks around him at the pan, the tray waiting on the counter with a glass of orange juice sat on top. “That’s a lot of food for just one person, you know. I could help you out.”

Taking the lid off, he loads the plate with eggs and vegetables, putting a fork next to it on the tray. “It’s for Zayn.”

She hums. Harry can sense her eyes on his back and even if she keeps quiet while Harry organizes the plate, he can already her hear words.

“Harry.”

“Yes?” Harry drags, because he knows what’s coming, he knows that tone. Harry knows what it means when people say his name like that, like he’s done something wrong and they want to put him in a time-out.

She waits until he finishes pouring water into the hot pan to let it can soak, and turns back around so she can look at him sternly as she says “What are you two doing?” in that tone of voice that Harry expects from only his closest family. Probably just Gemma and maybe Liam too, but not Sasha, the fastest person he knows, no speed-limit high enough to stop her. She’s his morning companion, since Niall tends to drift around his friends’ places more often than not, Duke is nowhere to be seen and Zayn doesn’t function in the morning well enough to hold a conversation. But Sasha doesn’t know everything, she doesn’t know Harry. She can’t possibly understand what it’s like to know exactly what Zayn tastes like, how it’s nothing like fire until the very moment he’s trembling and breathless, and to have that on the forefront of your mind every day with nothing to do about it except to make him breakfast, put it on a tray and take it upstairs for him. Sasha doesn’t know there are things that make Zayn stop breathing, and selfishly, Harry hopes no one else does either.

He doesn’t appreciate the look she’s sending his way right now, so he leans against the counter again and shrugs with a cool, “What?”

“Why don’t you make it official already? Tie that boy down. You’d look so hot together.”

“It’s not like that.” Harry rolls his eyes, he huffs, he sighs, but Sasha still looks at him as if she’s apologizing for kicking him in the shin in advance.

“Like what? Are you saying you don’t totally love him?” She raises a finger before he can roll his eyes again. “And don’t lie to me.”

So Harry scowls instead. “Of course I do, just not… you know… Can you not snort at me?”

“I’ll do whatever I like, because you’re being so stupid with that whole soulmate shit, you know that, right?”

“Sasha, it’s too early for this,” he groans. Harry knows it’s almost noon, that the breakfast he’s just made is more of an early lunch than anything else, but he can’t do this right now, not again.

Zayn and him have made it clear that they’re friends, _best_ friends, who on one occasion if he doesn’t count the times it’s happened afterwards, have hooked up, sure, but also decided that it was for the best if it remained in that, _I’m drunk, are you drunk? Can I kiss you?_ sort of place where the lines that are firmly drawn on the ground get blurry and start jumping around, so shouldn’t be a surprise they keep crossing them.

And maybe Sasha’s implying the fact that they haven’t actually discussed any one of those times after they happen – they tend to happen, and sometimes Harry’s glad they do – because as far as oversharing goes, Harry’s great at it when prompted by ice-cream and a rom-com, which Sasha knows and keeps abusing. He thinks it’s a tactic, because if she makes Harry talk about his messes then she doesn’t have to talk about herself and the girl she’s been practically running after for months now. But Zayn and Harry haven’t talked about it because they don’t need to. Harry feels the same, exactly the same as he always has. He can still hold off the rain for the time it takes him to run to campus when he’s late. And when the house is too full of stale air and the smell of two weeks old garbage that nobody takes out, he pulls at the breeze, brings it to his hands and lets it crawls over the floorboards, filling the nooks and crannies until the house smells of spring. There wasn’t a shift, nothing changed, so nothing _will_ change.

“If you keep waiting around for something,” she barrels on, sliding to the edge of the counter, “You’re gonna miss everything else that’s happening around you.”

“You sound like Louis.” Harry points his spatula at her in what he hopes is at least a little threatening gesture.

“Maybe you should listen to Louis then.”

No one should ever listen to Louis of all people. Sasha though, she’s usually on the nose when it comes to people. She isn’t just fast when it comes to running. Sizing someone up in a heartbeat, in the time between ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’ that’s why she’s the best in her class. And Harry guesses the fact she’s a psychology major might mean she knows a little of what she’s talking about, but he has his reasons. Sasha knows his reasons. A soulmate is a _good_ reason.

“I just– I don’t want to be with someone and then ten years down the road meet the person I’m supposed to be with.” Harry pouts, he hopes it’s good enough to move them away from this subject. It’s making him too sad to appreciate the smell of his delicious food.

“You’re _supposed_ to be with the person you _want_ to be with. Why is that so hard to understand for some people?”

“Because we believe in love, unlike you. Stop being so cynical.”

“Stop being so utopian then.” She raises her chin defiantly. Harry doesn’t think he wants to stand up against her right now. He’s never been good at confrontation, even if it’s for his own good. “Do you know how many people don’t meet their soulmate? Like… a lot, Harry.”

Of all the responses Harry has ready, he blinks and says, “And?”

“Just…” she sighs into her cup, swinging her feel and bumping her heels into the cupboard, chin down, confrontation avoided. “Don’t hurt yourself in the process of waiting.”

He looks over at the tray, the empty mug and carton of cream waiting next to it that isn’t for him, because Harry swore off coffee after that one time he drank too much and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and thinks, _Don’t step on any flowers Harry. They feel it, even if you can’t see it._

////

Harry takes the food upstairs, the orange juice spilling over the brim of the glass and on the napkin he folded underneath the plate. He nods his head towards the slightly ajar door, opening it further with a sudden whoosh of air that also whooshes all of his hair in front of his eyes.

Harry likes their house. It’s old, so the air keeps creeping in beneath the doors and through the floorboards, cold seeping in around the window frames, but so does the sun. A door can’t swing without the whole house feeling it, without everyone hearing how the hinges groan, the doorknobs always complaining under the strain of opening and closing. It’s a loud open house that lives with them, breathing just as they do.

Harry’s wondered how hard it would be to kick the front door open. A hard nudge would probably over do it, break the wooden panel in half. But it’s better than Liam and Louis’ place, the apartment in the residential area Karen found them up north, closer to Liam’s school than the bars or clubs or any other students they could hang out with. Their apartment is awful, because the kids are constantly playing on the street from as early as seven in the morning and until their parents call them back for dinner late afternoon. And it has low water pressure in the shower. It’s not like Harry cares about either, because the kids aren’t waking him up on Sunday mornings and he hasn’t done more than used the toilet in the bathroom, but Louis has not stopped complaining about it. So they all hate the apartment together in just about equal amounts.

The rest of them haven’t been domesticated yet though, are still waking up at the ass crack of noon on the days they have classes at eight in the morning, because they don’t manage to go to sleep before midnight, but the only ones they keep up at night are their roommates, not their one and two year old neighbors. There’s Niall, who took over what was once the garage and Duke, who has the room opposite him on the ground floor. Zayn’s room is right next to Harry’s and Sasha’s is above theirs. Out of all the rooms, they envy hers, because she has the whole floor to herself, but more than that, she has the second of the two bathrooms in the house, the only one with an actual bath that Harry might find himself in on the days she goes back home for the weekend to visit her family. They’re left with a bathroom and kitchen to share, because Zayn’s room was clearly a living room once, before a nest of messy students with barely any needs for it moved in. Harry thinks Zayn doesn’t mind having a fireplace in his bedroom though. Zayn doesn’t mind at all.

It’s perfect. It’s cheap. It’s fifteen minutes away from Harry’s campus and the bus stop for Zayn isn’t far either, though that’s the subject of an ongoing debate.

Harry doesn’t tiptoe to the bed. He stumbles up to it, hitting his foot against the bed only once before he knee walks his way to the pillow that’s left unoccupied. It’s a miracle he doesn’t spill juice over the sheets today.

“Zayn.” Harry knows how to do this. He let Zayn sleep for almost an hour longer than he should’ve to ease the blow of the early hour. He’s made food, brought a cup of coffee with cream on top. And he’s whispering, which is counterintuitive, Harry’s always thought so, but it’s also the only way to wake Zayn up without having to deal with the mood that usually goes along with it. It’s also a sure way to avoid having a pillow thrown at your head. It was either a preemptive strategy or burning the pillows, and Harry has a bad back to deal with already. So he whispers, “Zayn,” again.

There’s slight movement under the covers, a sniff, a light groan.

“I brought food,” Harry goes on, as he puts the tray down at the foot of the bed and takes the cup of coffee in his hands. “Made your favorite,” he lies, because he can’t make chocolate cupcakes every single morning. But there’s a louder groan and a deep sigh, which means it’s working.

Harry looks towards the half open window and the thick curtains restraining the early sun from entering. They’re velvet, a maroon red that’s faded to a sad brown with time and sun. He lifts a hand and pulls them away with a breeze.

“No,” Zayn whines as soon as he does, wrapping himself around the covers, saying, “Don’t do that, please don’t do that,” pitifully.

“You can’t eat in the dark.”

“Yes, I can,” he says and finally rolls over, peeps out from all the blankets and the three pillows he pulled around himself during the night.

“You hogged all the blankets again.”

Zayn scowls at him, his eyes barely open. It might just be because he’s still asleep. They didn’t get much sleep last night, didn’t get off the balcony before midnight and then Harry wasn’t tired and Zayn was too hazy, too jittery with the high they only managed to tire out sometime around three, after singing Adele’s _21_ front to back, when Zayn’s voice was just a crack and Harry could barely move. He had to though, at least over the end of the bed and on top of the covers. Zayn must’ve had a hard time pulling them from underneath his dead weight, but not an impossible time apparently.

“I did not.”

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Harry smiles, lifting his palms. Zayn runs hot when he sleeps. His skin keeps kindling, keeps a steady temperature that Harry has a hard time sleeping without. It’s like he’s ready, always ready to burst into flames, even when he’s snoring an inch away from Harry’s neck.

“Then come on,” Zayn nudges his head and lifts the covers and Harry would, he would want nothing more than to crawl underneath and maybe possibly bite a bruise onto Zayn’s chest since he took his t-shirt off in the middle of the night as well. He wants to make Zayn overheat until Harry’s on fire too, but they both missed their morning classes already and they can’t miss more right before finals. And they aren’t drunk, slurring their words and thinking the other will forget what happened by the time they wake up.

“I’d love to,” Harry says, leaning over to mess Zayn’s hair quickly, because he never minds in the morning. “But,” he starts, giving the cup to Zayn before he gets the tray. Zayn sits up patiently, the covers pooling around his waist. He should consider wearing clothes to bed if he doesn’t want Harry to start drooling. He places the tray in his lap and steals a sip of coffee before giving it back again, and says, ”It’s almost noon,” as calmly as he possibly can.

Zayn’s eyes still widen with sudden panic though. “What?”

“Stop. You’re gonna spill coffee on the –”

“It’s _noon_?”

“ _Almost_ noon.”

Harry knew he was gonna have to deal with panic, but the groan and the disappointment on Zayn’s face – that’s what he was trying to avoid.

“You’ve been late how many times? Like two?”

“Eleven, counting now,” Zayn grits out between his teeth.

But Harry doesn’t even pause at Zayn keeping track with every single morning he overslept and that one time Harry convinced him to skip his afternoon lecture and go to the park instead. The trees were changing color and he wanted to feed the ducks with the week old bread covering half of their couter space.

“Whatever, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Except for how my professors actually take attendance.”

“Make an excuse,” Harry shrugs, but going by Zayn’s expression, he misses the mark with his nonchalance. “Zayn,” he tries again, a different tactic. “It’s fine. Eat your eggs and get ready. You’ll make up for today.”

“Kinda lost my appetite.”

“Eat the eggs,” Harry snaps. “My delicious food will not go to waste.”

Zayn makes a face but picks up the fork. “Remind me to never get high before bed again.”

Harry snorts and steals another sip of coffee.

He wonders if he could convince Zayn to forget about classes altogether today. Maybe he could argue that since they’ve missed the morning ones, they should just call it quits and stay in bed all day. Zayn could stay topless and Harry could take his clothes off too, they could put something on his laptop and pretend to watch it while Harry gave Zayn a back massage with the happiest of endings.

Just as he’s about to cozy up closer to Zayn and bat his eyelashes, Zayn brings a tomato up to his face to inspect it before he shrugs and eats it, saying, “What are you doing tonight?” with his mouth full.

“I’m, um,” Harry starts, shrugging in between and looking down at the cup because he knows he has plans, but he _could’_ ve cancelled if Zayn didn’t interrupt him, before he says, “I have a date.”

“Oh?” Zayn’s eyebrows raise up to the middle of his forehead as he piles the rest of the tomatoes to the edge of his plate. He keeps chewing and separating the foods – eggs on one side, tomatoes on the other, cubes of zucchini in the middle – and decisively _not_ looking at Harry. “Who’s the lucky guy?” he asks around the same mouthful. Harry appreciates a thorough chew, like they said in his nutrition class, anything less than fifteen crunches of teeth isn’t considered chewing at all, but there’s a time and a place. Still, Harry lets him chew in peace, because they both know what they’re doing and why Zayn is asking. So Zayn’s fiddling with his food and Harry watches him do it.

“Lucas,” he says with a nod, clearing his throat. “A guy from school.”

“You asked him out?” Zayn asks his plate.

Harry doesn’t know what Zayn wants to hear, because if he says yes, then that implies that Harry wants to go out with Lucas and he does. Lucas is tall and blonde, he’s nice enough and he has decent grades, makes a mean basil pesto. And if Harry says no, that Lucas asked him, he’d be lying to Zayn which he doesn’t want to do, but maybe it would be better. Harry would just shrug it off as not wanting to hurt Lucas’s feelings. But then, frowning at himself, he doesn’t know why he’s considering his options in the first place. Or Harry does, but he doesn’t want to, so he shrugs and says, “Yeah,” into the cup before taking a big gulp.

“Mmm.” Humming is never a good sign, Harry knows that and it’s just more reaffirmed when Zayn puts his fork down and sets the tray down next to Harry’s knee. Ripping the blankets from his lap, he stands up, turned towards Harry with his hands on his hips, half a feet away from Harry’s reach. “I just thought we’d watch a movie or something, no biggie,” Zayn smiles tightly and struts off, one leg of his boxers hitched at the top of his thigh.

“I can cancel!” Harry tries shouting after him, but it’s no use. Harry’s going on his date tonight and Zayn won’t be home when he comes back. They date, or Harry dates and Zayn goes to Brown which means he has to study, but they date and they don’t talk about how Zayn will avoid Harry’s texts for two days, until he makes another breakfast in bed without a single plan for the week, so he’ll be able to do whatever Zayn will have planned for them. Then a week after that, they’ll go to a bar, Louis will get one of them drunk while Niall makes the other do shots, and they’ll fall into Zayn’s bed together, because his room has a fireplace that Zayn always lights when he’s drunk and sloppy, and Harry likes the look of the flames, how they lick up into the air, angry orange and mean red. They’ll both pretend they’re asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow until Harry will turn around in Zayn’s arms and ghost his lips over Zayn’s. He’ll hum and Zayn will sigh. They won’t say anything, just lie there, breathing the same air, share Zayn’s pillow and kiss until Zayn’s sitting in Harry’s lap. Harry will go on a date a week after that and they’ll do everything all over again.

////

“This is it boys.” Louis holds his glass high in the air, the sugary cocktail dripping down his wrist, but he’s had enough to not notice. He waits for everyone to stop what they’re doing and look at him instead. Louis’ always liked having all eyes on him. “This is it boys,” he repeats, louder this time. “This is the last time we can get as drunk as we want.”

“Why? What’s happening?” Niall looks around their table with panic in his eyes, cradling his beer close to his chest, as if he won’t ever let go of the pint again. Harry believes him, so he stretches his neck around Zayn to look at him, feeling how Niall’s panic settles somewhere deep inside his chest as well and a quick look around their table tells him he’s not the only one feeling the constraint.

“Finals, Ni,” Harry says. He wants to give Niall a hug, but it must dawn on him pretty quick because the mood switches from panic to joy and giddiness, and they can breathe easy again.

“Oh. Okay.” Niall wipes his hand over his forehead. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Do we need to have an intervention again?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” Niall blushes. Harry’s always found it interesting how it’s only the throat constraining emotions –  panic, sadness, that moment right before you’re about to cry – that slip past Niall. It’s never happiness that he emits without his says so.

“Just finish your speech.”

“Don’t _rush_ me,” Louis slaps at Liam’s chest. He scowls at him until Liam mouth an apology and then he’s smiling at him again, in that _Louis and Liam_ way that Harry has a difficult time looking directly at. “As I was saying. I hope everyone gets spectacularly drunk tonight, because that’s it _for the rest of the  month, Niall_.”

“Thank you,” Niall nods happily in return, smiling ear to ear as he raises his own glass and says a loud, “Cheers.”

Everyone follows, a chorus of ‘cheers’ heard from their table and a couple of other’s willingly joining as they all tip their glasses and bottles back, some with more twisted up faces than others. Harry likes the cocktail he’s nursing, something fruity and hot orange with a lemon slice and an umbrella leaning against the glass. He has no idea what it is, something with vodka he supposes, because Zayn ordered it and he knows how Harry gets when he drinks vodka. Zayn _likes_ how Harry gets when he drinks vodka.

“So, next order of business,” Louis continues as soon as they’ve all settled back down, nursing his third or fourth drink of the night, and the tone he uses, looking at Harry as he does, means absolutely nothing good. And Harry’s right, because Louis says, “Harry, how was your date?” loud enough for the entire bar to hear.

Harry nods down at the table. He shrugs and says, “Good,” knowing it won’t be enough to make Louis shut up.

“Let him be,” Niall tries.

“Just good?”

“Louis.”

“Oh, come on Liam, I’m just asking. Were there sparks? Is he the one?”

They’re making fun of him, or not _they_ , just Louis, like he always does, the lucky bastard. Harry decides to voice his thoughts, because it’s easy for someone to mock him if they’ve already met their other half, if they’re happily in love, if they felt the shift, know what it’s like.

People wait, Harry’s not the only one. Maybe he’s one of those that’ll wait for a little longer while his friends pair up and move away – everyone knows it’s only a matter of time before Niall does for how easily he mingles around entire groups of people. Harry’s sure he senses a lot of waiting in his own future, but then his ability doesn’t have much to do with premonition that’s unrelated to pressure changes in the air. But people wait and so Harry’s going to wait too and Louis or Sasha or anyone else won’t convince him to get distracted in the meanwhile.

“So no sparks?”

“No, no sparks,” he says, before he sips at his cocktail, draining it to the last drop.

There’s an air of awkwardness that hangs over their table after that, thanks to Louis and his insistent need to make Harry squirm in his seat, because _‘it’s fun to watch’_. Harry’s looking around the bar, at the people chatting and flirting at the other tables and wishes he didn’t have to flirt like that ever again, with the thought of _is this it?_ at the back of his mind.

“Hey, wanna play darts?” Zayn nods at the back wall where the bull’s eye is left unoccupied tonight, defusing the pressure and getting some of the attention off of Harry.

Louis shrugs with a smile, his eyes darting between Harry and Zayn, and Harry doesn’t want to know what’s going through his head that’s making him smile like that. “Sure, yeah. Come on Liam, you’ll be the ref.”

“Why me?” Liam whines, looks over at Niall pleadingly, but Niall just moves out of the booth to give Zayn room and slides back in, settling his head on Harry’s shoulder and smiling back at Liam. “This is the last time, Louis, I swear.”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“I’m not healing you if Zayn throws a dart at you again.” Liam walks after them with his hands held in the air. They all know he won’t hesitate to put his hands on Louis as soon as there’s even a slight complaint of pain coming from his lips, little less another dart sticking out of his arm. They’d all been lying in broken pieces on the floor without Liam. At least two of them would most likely be dead already.

“How _was_ your date?” Niall asks as soon as the others are out of earshot.

“Why is everyone so nosy tonight?”

“Not nosy, just interested and slightly drunk.” Niall grins at him.

“Already?”

He shrugs, his head jumping on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m tired.”

Harry could persuade Niall to go home, could start describing Niall’s bed, the food in their refrigerator or maybe offer a quick cheesy toast if they leave after this drink, but he huffs instead, because it’s useless. Either here or on the way home, he’d have to have this conversation sooner or later.

“The date was fine.”

Niall licks his lips, takes a sip and spills beer over Harry’s shoulder. “It was fine?”

“Yes, it was fine,” Harry repeats, huffing before he settles himself more comfortably in the booth. “Lucas was nice and everything. We went to our professor’s restaurant –”

“The one with the fish?”

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles. “The one with the fish. And dinner was good. He was nice.”

“I mean, it might just be me,” Niall starts, righting himself as he turns to look at Harry fully, “but you just made it sound really bland. _Nice, good,_ and _nice_ again. What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry.”

“Why does everyone feel the need to say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Niall raises an eyebrow, mouthing the name to himself. So he is drunk.

“Like I did something wrong,” Harry huffs out, waving his hands in the air. “I went on a date, it was nice and I’m not going on another one with him. End of story, let’s move on.” He takes the pint out of Niall’s hands and takes a big gulp for emphasis.

“Why not?”

Harry shrugs, because Niall knows. They all know that Harry dates, that he meets people and he likes them, and sometimes he goes to dinner with them, sometimes a drink, other times to the closest bed. But there aren’t any names that he has to remember, no numbers to call the next day, no walks of shame, because there’s too much disappointment to feel anything else. Harry doesn’t remember the last time he went on a second date with someone.

And it’s depressing to think about when his friends look at him the way Niall’s looking at him right now, or when they make fun, even innocently like Louis does, more for his own enjoyment of seeing Harry get frustrated than anything else, so he shrugs again and leans his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling. “Because he wasn’t the one.”

“You could still go on another date with him. At least you’ll get a free meal out of it?” Niall jokes, because it’s apparent Harry’s getting himself ready to start moping around and making their night less fun and a lot whinier. He should definitely not get another cocktail. “Why did you go to dinner with him in the first place though?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, I mean, didn’t you know he wasn’t, you know, _the one_?”

“Well, I mean…” Admitting to the fact that sometimes Harry hopes the reaction is just delayed, that it’ll happen late at night, or the next morning, waking up and feeling _different_ , like he’s going to have an epiphany, an _aha_ moment as soon as his feet touch the floor and he stands up, looking down at the person still asleep on the bed and look at them differently, see them as something else, is a bit too much for tonight, because he’s already worried about the upcoming exams and he’s had three cocktails, which is usually enough for him to start dancing and flailing around the crowd at the bar. “He was actually nice. Or pleasant, or whatever.”

“Then I don’t know,” Niall punches his shoulder lightly, smiling at him and Harry scowls at him because he has a distinct feeling that the bubble of joy getting ready to burst in his stomach isn’t his own doing. “Go out with him again maybe?”

Harry feels warm. He smiles down at his empty glass, laughing for absolutely no reason except for Niall making him. He should stop using his power to cheer people up. It’s rude.

“If you had a good time, then go to have a good time again.”

“Yeah, but the exams –”

“Or don’t go.” Niall’s raising his hands in defeat and sighing, because leave it to Harry to ruin a completely good night with moping about his one and true love. It’s not his fault though, it’s the universe’s, because someone out there decided that everyone comes in pairs, but they didn’t make a bulletproof plan, because of course they didn’t, so now some people don’t get a soulmate while others get two. For some it takes decades and even when it happens and you feel it and you know, they aren’t your soulmate even if you’re theirs. Harry has to wait while Louis and Liam met each other in high school. He’d much rather see that everyone gets their other half at ten years old and then that’s it. Although there are still those unsatisfied with the universe even then, when they have everything to be happy, to be in love and be loved in return.

Harry’s giving himself a headache, so he steals another sip of beer, his nose scrunching because it’s bitter compared to the lingering sweetness on his tongue. “I’ll think about it, okay?” he gives in even if he doesn’t want to. Because when it comes down to it, Harry doesn’t want to date. If it were up to him, he’d go on one more first date and that would be it, just second and third and twentieth dates from then on.

Harry’s tired of pretending like he’s paying attention to Lucas’ when all he’s thinking about is if it’s happening, if he’s missing it, if he can feel anything other than disappointment. Because Harry never does, nothing else, just that deep sinking feeling that he could’ve spent his night in bed instead. In bed with someone that makes Harry forget he’s waiting for that shift, someone that runs hot during the night and doesn’t complain about Harry’s cold feet. Someone that, even if he doesn’t agree, understands why Harry’s waiting, why he doesn’t want to spend his days stuck underneath the blue sky, because he’s settled for something less than fate. Harry says, “I really do have nothing to lose, do I?”

And Niall smiles at him. “Exactly.”

“Okay.” He has to nod to himself a couple of times, but then the headache gets worse, so he stands up instead. “I’m just gonna go out for a second.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves Niall off, “That beer is disgusting, I just need some air.”

“I’m coming after you in five minutes.”

Harry smiles at him. “Deal.”

////

Zayn comes out after him, worried of course, like they all probably are, but Harry is fine. He’s just leaning against the wall at the end of the street, looking up at the sky and moving clouds around. He likes how they melt together if he’s careful enough, not a seam left in sight when Harry rolls his wrist instead of flicking it. It’s subtle, the illuminated clouds full of water that he can feel in his bones, drifting inch by inch closer together, shining the closer they get and then with a move of a single finger, they’re one.

Zayn comes to stand next to Harry, his back against the wall, their shoulders barely touching. “You okay?” he asks, scuffing the tip of his boot against the pavement.

He isn’t. Until he meets his soulmate and falls in love with the person he’s supposed to fall in love with, Harry doesn’t think he’ll be okay. But looking at the clouds, at how he’s rearranging the entire sky with his fingers, Harry sighs out an, “Yeah,” because he’ll have to be. “I think I’m gonna go out with Lucas again.”

“Oh,” Zayn breathes, keeping his eyes on the ground, but he’s smiling at Harry in the next second, this small thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s good.”

“I might even go on a third date,” Harry says, thinking that there’s no reason why he shouldn’t just start dating Lucas for real, how some people do, just because they like someone even if they know their names aren’t written in the stars. Harry could do that.

“Why not, right?” Zayn agrees, nodding along with Harry.

“Exactly,” Harry points out, leaning away from the wall a little as he waves his hands around. “I like dating and getting to know people. I just… I might like it, the whole dating process.”

And then Zayn’s smiling at him again, except it’s big and it’s real and it makes his eyes sparkle. “I’m happy for you,” he says. Harry doesn’t think how he wanted Zayn to tell him to give up dating altogether, to just keep on getting drunk and crawl into his bed on those nights when their tongues are heavy and the floor moves beneath their feet. He doesn’t, because Zayn’s pulling his cigarettes out his pocket, sliding one out and putting it between his teeth.

It’s Harry’s favorite trick, because Zayn doesn’t need to carry around a lighter, not since he’s learned to light the cigarette with an inhale, like he’s breathing in fire. His cheeks hollow and the end of it light up in orange, sizzling with smoke. And as Harry watches the twirl drift into the air, Harry does think about it. He thinks about how warm Zayn’s bed is, how messy his room is, t-shirts and jeans and jackets and socks on the floor since they moved in years ago but somehow, Zayn’s always the one doing the dishes that stick to the bottom of the sink, always the one vacuuming on Saturday mornings if they manage to wake up before noon. Harry looks over at him, how he’s hunched over a little, one knee bent, foot pressed against the wall and it’s like Zayn can feel Harry’s eyes on the tip of his sharp nose, because he turns around, cigarette sitting in the corner of his mouth.

They look at each other for a second, then for two and before Harry can wonder why Zayn’s taking the cigarette between his fingers and throwing it to the side, he’s tasting beer and smoke, and thinking about how he expects Zayn to taste like smoke now, that underlying taste of cigarettes on Zayn’s tongue since he started smoking right around the time he had to write his first paper for a class.

Zayn leans away, looking down the street. “Why did you do that?”

It’s not the right time to kiss, they aren’t lying in bed with the covers over their heads, pretending to be asleep. But Harry wanted to. “I felt like it.” He shrugs, not knowing what else to do or say.

Zayn smiles at him, but he doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes as he leans in to peck Harry’s lips again. He’s warm now, his skin glowing with that hot tinge of fire. “We should go back inside.”

“What if we go home?”

Zayn raises an eyebrow.

“I’m tired and I feel a headache coming on.”

And then Zayn’s expression softens up and he’s pulling Harry away from the wall and down the street, leading him with a steady hand on his back, as the clouds start separating, moving away from each other not that there’s nothing left to keep them together.

“Did you know I always wanted to climb a mountain.” Harry asks as they walk, wrapping his hands around his arms because May is crisp when the sun goes down. Harry only vaguely ponders the idea of pulling it back up while they make their way home.

“Why?”

“Well not because of the climb, obviously, because my asthma would kill me –”

“Harry.”

“It’s high, right? Mountains are close to the sky. Like Mount Everest, I guess, I think I’d really like the feeling of being on top of Everest.”

Zayn looks at him sideways, shaking his head.

“It would kind of be like you standing on a top of a volcano, wouldn’t it?” Harry goes on, because he can imagine how Zayn would feel like, standing in the middle of something like that.

“I mean, lava does nothing for me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Zayn laughs.

“What about a forest fire or something?” Harry suggests and swears Zayn’s eyes light up. “Okay, so think how it would feel to be so close to something that’s a part of you. Or something that _is_ you.”

“Well then you should find the highest forest.”

“Why?” Harry frowns. He doesn’t think there’s a forest on top of Everest, it’s probably all frozen rock covered in thick layers of snow.

Zayn bumps their shoulder together to get Harry to look at him. “Then I can be close to the fire and you’ll be closer to the sky, but we could do it together.”

That’s the moment, Harry thinks. That’s when waiting for his soulmate isn’t as romantic as it means not being able to love someone he’s in love with, but Zayn’s his friend. They’re friends that bump their hands together as they walk down the street, but never hold them. They kiss at night, when no one sees and the rest of the world is asleep. And Harry thinks now is that time, because as they finally get to their street, it’s quiet enough to hear their footsteps, so it’s not his fault that he says it, it’s probably more Niall’s than anyone else’s. “What if we…”

“What? I’m not breaking into anything right now.” Zayn has his hands raised, because these are the moments they’ve both had stupid ideas in the past, when they’re standing right in front of their house, their minds already on their bed, on sleep, on tomorrow.

“What?” Harry blushes. “No, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then what?” Zayn’s standing in front of him, letting his hands fall down into his pockets. He doesn’t rush Harry and he appreciates it, but maybe a little rush would make him just say it, just get it out there, because it’s something Harry’s been thinking about for longer than he’s willing to admit.

He would like to date other people, go on a second date with Lucas, finally meet someone’s parents and charm them like he does everyone else. But he’s met some parents already, he those parents like him enough to always invite him over for dinner, for birthdays and wedding anniversaries. More than dating, Harry would like to know there’s someone there for him, waiting up at night, making him tea in the morning, remembering he doesn’t take any sugar in it. And maybe it would just complicate things, maybe he won’t be able to drink tea if it all goes wrong, but getting to rest for a second, to just stay still and breathe and not be so impatient is worth the risk. Harry could drink water instead of tea. Or juice.

“Well, I mean, and hear me out, okay?”

“Harry.”

“First of all,” he rushes to say. “No one is allowed to say my name anymore. And… I don’t know, I don’t want to just wait around anymore, you know? It’s depressing.”

“What is?” Zayn rocks back on his heels, like he’s trying to get himself out of this situation, away from Harry’s jittery hands.

Harry doesn’t give him the chance, saying, “Dating.” He bites his lips, waits for a reaction, but as Zayn just stands there, rocking back and forth, Harry barrels on. “I know I said the opposite like, half an hour ago.” Zayn’s nodding at him with raised eyebrows. _Good,_ Harry thinks. _You’re listening._ “But I’m tired of setting myself up and I don’t want to date someone just for the hell of it.” He hopes this is making any sense at all, because he’s cold, he’s tired and those cocktails he had aren’t doing him any favors either. “I mean, I don’t want to date people that don’t mean anything to me, you know? So, I don’t know, I just thought… ”

“Spit it out, Harry.”

Harry pulls a warm breath of air around his shoulders to give himself a moment, sharing a little of the warm with Zayn too, even if he was smart enough to bring a jacket with him.

“I like you,” Harry blurts out, his hands gripping his arms, hoping he doesn’t end up running away.

Zayn doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t scoff or laugh like Harry thought he might, but he doesn’t say anything either and Harry knew that a possibility. He’s never known what to do with silence.

“This might be stupid, but we both know that on nights like this, we tend to, you know…”

 Zayn licks his lips, presses the fingers of his right hand together. Harry’s waiting for a spark, but it doesn’t come so he goes on, thinking now or never. “So why not do it on more than just nights like this?”

“I’m, I don’t – I, um…”

“No, but listen. No strings, right? We could still go on dates and meet people or whatever. I’m just tired of being so fucking pressured to find this stupid person. And maybe I won’t want to for a while, because  I think I’m tired of being disappointed so much, I don’t know. All I’m saying is you would make perfect company in the meanwhile, yeah?” He smiles what he thinks is a winning grin that usually works on everyone else and waits with his arms spread wide apart, too nervous to tuck them behind his back like he wants to.

“So I’d be, like, what exactly to you?”

“A very good friend that I can kiss.”

“So no strings?” Zayn’s obviously concentrating on that part, because he doesn’t want to commit to Harry, but that’s understandable. He isn’t the one waiting around. Zayn’s willing to settle down for less than his one and only, and Harry would try to explain how that could go terribly wrong, but he’s done it enough times already that he thinks he doesn’t have to do it right now, when Zayn’s frowning down at his boots and groaning under his breath.

So Harry says, “Not a one,” with emphasis, waving his hands around to try and demonstrate how string-less they would be. They would be the opposite of strings, whatever that is. “Just friends, kind of.”

“Let me think about it?”

“Yeah, yeah, take your time.”

“Okay,” Zayn nods, turning around and walking up the front steps. Harry’s right behind him with the keys in hand that he keeps tucked on his belt loop because neither of them can stop losing them. He has to lean around Zayn to unlock the door – these are the moment he wishes he could just nudge the door to open it – and when he does, he can tell that Zayn’s been warming himself up as well, his skin radiating with sticky heat. Harry leans closer to him, key still in hand to get to the door. He was willing to give Zayn as much time as he needed – a day, a week, a month maybe – but Harry’s been wrong in the past.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight?” he asks, without thinking, without giving Zayn any time, not even a second, because he can already picture himself under Zayn’s fort of blankets and pillows, feeling that warmth cocoon him as he falls into a restful sleep with the fire crackling at their feet.

 

 

October 2014

“What do you think?” Harry spreads his arms wide and does a quick twirl in front of the mirror. Niall gives a non-committal response, something along the lines of, "good, good," that Harry doesn't hear, because he can't keep his attention off his reflection and he’s asking himself more than Niall. He wonders if it's too late to change into something else, like a yellow ensemble that could be a sun, blinding anyone who looks at him too closely at the party. He can't step into the shower with a t-shirt and jeans on, get himself all wet and call it rain, because according to Louis, "that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

But Harry thinks wearing puffy blue and white foam around his waist that’s supposed to look like a cloud but really doesn’t, not in the slightest, has to be the worst thing he’s ever seen on himself. And he has some pretty questionable outfit choices in his closet, which only further proves his point.

“I don’t like it.” He tries to put his hands on his hips and lets them fall limply when he remembers he can’t.

“You look great, Harry,” Niall drones, but he’s not even looking at him when he says it. He’s lying on the bed and scrolling through his phone. Sometimes, Harry doesn’t even know why he tries.

“Easy for you to say, you’re wearing a suit.”

Niall grins at his screen and double taps on it. Harry’s willing to bet Louis has embarrassed Liam on _Instagram_ again. “Do you have any better ideas for my costume? No? That’s what I thought.”

“You do make a dashing Freud.” Harry smiles against the thought of looking like a clown – which in hindsight would’ve been a great costume, definitely better than fluff and puff.

Finally putting his phone away, Niall jumps off the bed and pulls at the bottom of his jacket to straighten it out. “Now.” He clasps Harry by his shoulders, looking at him with a stern smile that shouldn’t work as well as it does. “Stop your complaining, because you look fine and Zayn will kill you if he hears you don’t like it.”

Harry grins at him and nods, because Niall’s right. When they heard about the Halloween party a couple of houses down from theirs, Zayn got more excited about it than Harry thinks he’s ever seen him, except for the time he got accepted to Brown. That was a side of Zayn no one’s ever seen except for Harry – he jumped into Harry’s arms, literally jumped, as tears ran over his happy grin. Harry tried to hug him and tell him how happy he was, how proud, but Zayn wouldn’t let him breathe.

It was a different excitement now, because Zayn’s eyes sparkled with flying embers as Louis told him there’s going to be a Halloween party with a mandatory ‘abilities’ theme.

“Abilities theme? What does that mean?” Zayn asked, leaning over the table. “Like what are the parameters here? Are we talking any ability, personal ability or just the ability you’d really like to have?”

“Zayn?” Louis turned to him, put a hand on Zayn’s arm and said, in a calming tone that wasn’t completely out of character, “You’re going to design our costumes, okay? But you have _got_ to chill first.”

After serially blinking, as if he didn’t quite understand what Louis was saying, Zayn sat back in his chair and blushed in a pretty scarlet that Harry wanted to kiss away. But he couldn’t. It was one of the many, many times Harry’s had to remind himself that Zayn doesn’t appreciate the hand holding or the quick pecks Harry deals out like free candy. _No string_. That’s what they said, that’s what Zayn said that morning they stood at the bus stop and waited for Zayn to wave and get to his seat so Harry could wave back and be on his marry alone way to class. Because Zayn had turned to wave and Harry took a step forward, telling himself later he was going for a friendly hug, not a kiss on Zayn’s soft lips. Definitely not that.

Zayn serially blinked at him then as well, not understanding, confused, bewildered and all good things as Harry stood awkwardly in mid-step, waiting for what was coming, preparing himself for a drink thrown in his face. A shake of the head. That’s what Harry got. A slow shake and a hand on his arm, like a condolence prize. Harry didn’t know what it meant then and he doesn’t know what that shake means now, because he gets it every time he forgets to remind himself: _no strings_.

Harry’s hatred for that phrase multiplies exponentially every time he remembers he was the one who came up with it.

He wanted to complain about it then, stomp his foot and take it back, because he was sitting in the café next to a cutely embarrassed Zayn and it wasn’t fair. All Harry could think to hold himself back was that his soulmate better be worth it.

“I’d like to apologize on Louis’ behalf. We didn’t get much sleep last night.” Liam rubbed at Louis’ back. They told them about the neighbors that moved in next door, the couple with a newborn that doesn’t sleep through the night yet. Harry couldn’t imagine what Zayn would do if there was a crying infant keeping him from his precious sleep.

“Why don’t you just move?”

“We’re not moving.”

Liam moved his hands to Louis’ shoulders and started to press his fingers into the tight muscle there as he parroted Louis’, “We’re not moving,” in a much more ‘inside places’ voice.

“Sorry,” Niall raised his hands in the air, “Just wondering.”

“I’m either buying a muffle or earplugs and I haven’t decided which yet.”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry stepped in, because, “That’s not funny.”

“It’s really not man,” Zayn piped up as well, the color in his face back to normal. _No strings, no strings, no strings._

“It’s not meant to be.”

“Can we swing this back to the Halloween party, please? _Please_?”

Louis’ head lolled back on his neck, his eyes slipping shut in the next second, right before he let out a heavy groan. Liam must’ve been putting something else besides strength into his fingers. He was practically melting in his chair, until he was leaning his head against Liam with a dopey smile on his face. They’ve been together for four years and Harry has yet to stop being jealous of them.

“Your costume has to be your ability,” Louis slurred and Zayn’s wheels immediately started to turn. He grabbed a notebook from his bag, one that already had doddles on the cover and all along its spine, an alien here, a dog there. “I don’t know how that’s going to work.”

But Zayn was already on it, drawing wobbly stick figures for each of them. There were two with their arms connected, one with hair sticking away from its head – Niall didn’t do anything except put a sweater on between waking up and walking to the café. Then there was one with little dots for hair, and lastly, a tall one with wiggles for arms and legs. Slightly offended, Harry agreed that was the best representation of him.

“Okay, you,” Zayn pointed at Liam, “are going to be a nurse.”

Liam pouted. “What?”

“You can be a doctor if you want,” Zayn said, already drawing a hat with a cross on top of Liam’s stick figure. “Or a band-aid or something.” He wrote ‘nurse’ bellow his sketch.

“I guess nurse would be easiest.”

“Great.” Zayn smiled up at him, because he was one of those people who could genuinely multi-task, like draw Niall’s figure a suit while looking at Louis with a puzzled face, thinking ahead.

“So?” Niall asked impatiently, leaning on the table to look over Zayn’s arm.

“Freud.”

“Freud?”

“Freud.”

“Okay,” Niall grinned and sat back in his chair. He sipped on his coffee and kept his eyes on Zayn’s hands.

“Louis, I guess you could have Liam’s headphones on. Or maybe we could find you a jukebox or something.” Zayn’s tongue always poked out of the side of his mouth when he was drawing or writing, and Harry was sure Zayn had no idea that it happened.

“Or I could be nothing.” Louis shrugged, apparently still under the influence of Liam’s hands, because they knew his shift was a sensitive subject. Louis had always been proud of his ability to deafen everyone around him. He took pleasure in melting brains, but after Liam, he could barely manage a pitchy screech. It still melted their brains, just much slower, so they were all half expecting some sort of rebuttal that would last at least fifteen minutes to an hour.

“Shut up,” Zayn snapped and Louis shrugged again, scooting closer to Liam and whispering, “I’m gonna be a jukebox for Halloween, Liam,” for all of them to hear.

“I’m gonna be fire,” Zayn said in the same tone, drawing flames all around his feet before he moved over to Harry’s figure to draw cotton candy around his torso. “And Harry’s gonna be a cloud.”

In that moment, as Zayn’s eyes glimmered with ideas and possibilities, Harry liked the thought of being a cloud, of roaming around in the sky somewhere, floating from continent to continent, over oceans and touching the tips of mountains like cirrus clouds do, drifting higher than all the others.

“I love it.” Harry kept nodding his head, imagining a clear blue summer sky with just him on it, in middle of it, floating and floating and nothing else. It turns out that gluing cotton foam to a t-shirt and painting it white doesn’t really make it look like you’re floating or a cirrus cloud or anything other than cotton candy. It makes you look like you’re cumulonimbus and even if Harry can find it in himself to admit that there’s not a cloud he wouldn’t want to be, that particular one is at the bottom of his list. When Zayn drew cotton candy around his stick figure, Harry didn’t know it’s exactly what he was going to end up being. A white piece of fluffy cotton candy costume that does absolutely nothing for his figure.

So Harry says, “It’s not that I don’t like it,” which makes Niall smile, but as soon as Harry adds, “I really hate it,” his smile drops and he walks away groaning.

“We’re leaving in five minutes.”

“That’s not enough time to improvise a new costume!” Harry shouts after him, seriously considering a yellow on yellow outfit, or at least removing some of the unnecessary fluff just as Zayn walks into the room with a spring in his step.

“You ready?” he asks, grinning wide, happy, excited. He’s making Harry feel horrible, and apparently it shows, because Zayn’s face drops before he’s walking over to him asking, “Is everything okay?” that only makes Harry feel worse.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry has his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, he starts playing with the rings on his fingers and his eyes keep following Zayn’s, because he needs to see his flame. There can’t be any sparks, because sparks mean that Zayn’s mad and Harry doesn’t want to make him mad, but he also really doesn’t want to go to the party dressed in a puff ball.

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn says just as Harry opens his mouth to apologize. It throws him off because Zayn was supposed to just let him say it, _I hate my costume, I’m sorry_. But during the extra second that passes by in silence that Harry takes to compose himself, Zayn gets the chance to add a quick, “Can I take your photo first though?”

“What?”

“You just look really cute in your costume,” Zayn murmurs quietly. He always does, unless they’re in his room, behind closed doors, just them and the fireplace.

Resembling a fish, Harry’s mouth hangs open as Zayn laughs while he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He takes a step away from Harry and there’s an audible _click_ of the camera’s shutter that only reminds Harry to possibly close his mouth for the next one. It doesn’t come though. Zayn smiles at his phone, locks it and says, “What were you going to say?”

Niall has his fancy suit, fake white beard, glasses and Zayn’s green pipe that’s stuffed with weed for later. Liam is in the scrubs he got from school. They found an old cassette radio player for Louis that would work if they had any cassettes to play. And Zayn’s outfit, the way he glued paper cutouts of flames around his legs and arms, spray painted red and orange and yellow lines all over his black t-shirt and even dyed a strand of hair a bright yellow doesn’t look fair next to Harry’s, but apparently he looks _really cute_ and Harry thinks he can live with that. Fluff or no fluff.

So Harry ends up saying, “Remind me to show you something later,” with a wide smile on his face before he pulls Zayn out of the room and down the stairs to where the others are waiting – and yelling – for them.

////

“What do you think she is?” Niall points to a girl dressed in a black bodysuit with white stripes that’s fitting her like it’s glued to her skin. Harry’s first thought when his eyes catch her is time travel. Maybe the linear lines are supposed to represent a timeline of sorts. On second thought though, he doesn’t think a time traveler would be at this party.

“A zebra.”

“What, like a shapeshifter?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. He’s never seen a shapeshifting zebra before. A lion, a dog and a flexible cat once, but nothing with hooves. Maybe Wali can do it. “But it’s not like we can ask,” he sighs. It would be cool if she’d shift. A zebra is what this party needs.

“Why not?”

Harry sputters and says “Because it’s rude? You can’t just go up to people and –” but he stops himself, because Niall’s already walking over to her with a wide smile and a glass to offer her.

If she is a zebra and if she does willingly shapeshift in the middle of someone’s living room, then maybe Harry won’t feel like going home anymore. It might mean that other’s will join and an ability show-off is always fun.

One broke-out last year at an end of the semester party in the dorms. There were energy balls flying and doors to other dimensions opening – thankfully no one got lost. Apparently, a guy froze the party in time, so after hours of drinking and pulling muscles to win the sudden contest of who’s power is the coolest, it was over before midnight. Harry’s heard stories, because Louis wouldn’t shut up about it, how he could’ve melted all of their brains if only he hadn’t met Liam yet – the fight they had because of that comment was something else too – but he wasn’t there. He stayed home, because Zayn was sick after pulling all-nighters for three weeks straight, surviving on cup-noodles and energy drinks to ace his exams. And he did. Of course Zayn aced all of his exams, he could’ve aced all of their exams in the spare time, but he paid for his grades with a cold and a migraine that lasted three days. Harry was the only one kind enough to take care of him. Not that Zayn wouldn’t have been okay on his own. This way, though, Harry made him chicken soup from scratch and they marathoned the _Ghost Rider_ movies. Zayn fell asleep half an hour into the first one.

Besides Zebra girl, who’s shaking her head at Niall which means that the name probably doesn’t fit anymore, putting on a hooved show, there won’t be much reason to talk about this party tomorrow. Some people are drunk, like the guy with planets glued to his t-shirt half standing on the table telling a story to an interested crowd and a few others here and there, standing out with their loudness. Harry doesn’t begin to wonder what the planet guy’s outfit means.

Niall comes back grinning wider than before, nodding to Harry before he sits back on the couch next to him and murmurs, “She’s bendy,” into his cup.

“Bendy how?”

“ _Insanely_ bendy,” Niall emphasizes, his grin taking a completely different meaning.

“You’re disgusting,” Harry laughs, shaking his head at the image that must be the reason Niall is winking back at Bendy girl.

“Speaking of, guess who showed up.”

“What?” Harry looks over at Niall and then at the groups of people huddled around the living room, the guy now actually standing on the table. He hears Louis’ buoyant voice coming from somewhere, Liam probably not far away from him, but he can’t see anyone he knows. “Who?”

Just as he’s getting intrigued, because Harry doesn’t think he’s missed any new rumor, so he should know who to look for, Chris winds his way around two identical girls that makes Harry think there aren’t actually two of them. There are more clones walking around than Harry would like to think about

“Chris!” It catches Harry off guard, because he didn’t think he’d be invited to something like this, where only good humored and nice people are invited, not cynical roommates he’s trying to avoid.

“We were just talking about you,” Niall says with a smile that almost makes Harry groan and roll his eyes. He grins wide instead.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came with a couple of friends,” Chris points over his shoulder at no one in particular.

“Friends?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nods over-enthusiastically, a clear sign that he’s no longer completely sober. “From my class.”

“Oh,” Niall drags.

“Shut up,” Harry hisses back. He knows his friends don’t like Chris and that Niall goes on rare but passionate rants about having to share a wall with him and his ‘goddamn loud music’. Chris does tend to constantly listen to music at a ridiculously high volume – it’s a wonder he isn’t deaf yet. Duke left the house sometime last year, no one’s really sure when, because none of them knew it happened until the semester started and Chris was there with a suitcase and a box of things. No one knows what was in that box – Harry told them Chris’s room is completely void of anything, besides the Spiderman sheets and two posters that are obviously his. They have theories. Zayn says it was his countless band t-shirts and he does have a point. Chris hasn’t worn the same one twice.

“What are you doing later?”

“Me?” Harry points at his own chest. He’s not completely sober either, which is why he says, “Nothing. I don’t have anything planned,” with an air on nonchalance before he takes another sip of his drink.

“Didn’t you say you –” Niall starts, but Harry interrupts him with a louder, “Find you later?” that Chris nods to with a smirk and leaves.

“What do you see in that guy?”

“What?” He can’t pretend like he didn’t hear, because Niall holds his alcohol better than most and he’s only had a couple of beers. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

Harry scowls at him. “I like him, okay?”

“No you don’t,” Niall shrugs. It bothers Harry more than it probably should.

“You can’t read minds Niall.”

“No, I can’t, but I can read yours.” He says it with the kind of confidence that _really_ bothers Harry, but Niall is right. If anyone knows what he’s thinking it’s him. But Harry doesn’t have to like it and he doesn’t have to agree with everything Niall says. Even when he’s right and Harry knows he should.

“I don’t know why everyone’s so concerned with Chris.” It’s not Chris’s fault though, Harry knows that much. When he first moved in, the roommates didn’t really like Chris. He was as absent as Duke had been, but he still made his presence known, because unlike Duke, Chris was in his bedroom, always, every day, listening to his music. Leaving dirty dishes in the sink, not bothering to buy new toilet paper or speed up his morning showers. ‘Like he’s the only one who needs the bathroom in the morning’. So Harry knows why no one likes Chris, he doesn’t like Chris as a roommate either, but as someone who’s funny in the same way Harry is, who kept complimenting Harry’s breakfast, saying the cinnamon rolls were just like his mom’s, someone who didn’t appear to go to class even once in the past month, it was easy to follow him to his room one morning, when the house was empty and no one could judge him. Having Chris around was okay when he didn’t talk too much, not that Harry likes him for his conversational skills. Not that Harry even likes him.

“Do you want to hear the truth?” Niall asks with his eyebrows raised, giving Harry a second to pinch his ears closed, but when he doesn’t, Niall says, with the same noncommittal voice as everything else, “Because you keep fucking him.”

Harry sputters. “What? I don’t keep–”

“No one really knows why you do it,” Niall interrupts him rudely.

“I don’t keep fucking him.” He knows he’s talking too loudly for an indoor party and for someone who’s only had two cups of a vodka tonic. He quiets down but then his voice goes higher when he says, “Why would you even care if I did?”

“Because we do?” Niall doesn’t seem to understand the question, his eyebrows lifting in confusion. And Harry doesn’t understand the whole line of conversation, because it only happened once and Harry said he isn’t going to do it again. It’s not his fault that Niall had to come back early from class and hear what he thought was Chris getting it on with someone before ten in the morning, mimicking the moans he said he couldn’t ignore through the thin wall later that night. Harry couldn’t keep his head low enough, so it was only a matter of time before someone saw his ruby red face. He doesn’t know why he expected his friends to not make a big deal out of it. “You’d care if I was doing something horribly stupid,” Niall explains.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.”

“It’s how he show our love,” he smiles at Harry, bats his eyelashes and giggles like a five year old.

“I don’t get it,” Harry sighs, sinking deeper into the couch.

Niall loses some of his easiness as he says, “Maybe you should talk to someone about that,” pointedly, like he’s giving him a hint, like he’s really trying to tell him something. Like Harry actually needs help.

“I really don’t like you, you know that right?”

Niall stands up and sends Harry a kiss. If it were anyone else, Harry would catch it and throw it away, but he can’t help himself when he pretends to put it in his pocket.

“I’m gonna find the others and you should stay away from the stairs.”

Harry looks over to where Chris is standing, leaning against the staircase, talking to zebra girl or bendy girl or whatever her name is. If he looks hard enough from far away, Chris doesn’t look that bad, doesn’t seem like the type of person who would refuse to lower the volume of his _Korn_ discography if someone asked nicely. There are only so many times a person can hear _Freak on a Leash_. He’s dressed in all black – like he usually is – from head to toe, with a smidgen of eyeliner around his eyes that just emphasizes how black they already are, but Harry has to give it to him. Manipulating shadows doesn’t leave you much else than black. Although, if it was Harry, he’s dress as Peter Pan and make a pun out of it. If Zayn would’ve let him in the first place.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“Mhm,” Niall drawls and as he walks away, and Harry thinks there was a doubting tone to that hum.

////

It’s four in the morning and it seems like the whole world is asleep. The sky is at a standstill, the trees firm where they stand, not even so much as a whiff of a breeze to disturb the leaves this early in this morning. Harry isn’t quite sure if that’s him or if tonight is one of those rare occasions when the weather takes a break. There’s an occasional person, a witch or a superman, a swerving pirate stumbling down their street, but otherwise it’s quiet, like it’s stuck in time, lost in the moment.

Harry’s still dressed in his fluff, though it’s torn on the left, a sad piece of foam hanging on by a string, and it’s a good thing he is, because the autumn night has a cold bite to it and he hates to admit it, but it’s keeping him warm. He could pull a southern breeze around his arms, but Harry can feel the heat radiating from Zayn, and as he scoots an inch closer, it feels more like spring that it does autumn. Like late April or early May.

It was Harry who sat on the couch in his miserable looking costume and waited for Zayn to finally stumble his way home. Though he didn’t stumble, because Zayn’s never appreciated hangovers enough to partake in drinking, as much as he liked passing the roach around in a circle. So Harry was the one who suggested they climb onto the roof right outside Zayn’s window, because it’s flattest there and Harry wasn’t in the mood to get into an accident tonight, right as Zayn’s head popped up in his line of vision.

“I need to show you something,” Harry said from the couch when he saw Zayn walking up the stairs. And all he could hear as he grabbed his arm and dragged him off to his room was Zayn’s questioning, but not worried, “Okay.”

It’s something Harry works on when he can’t sleep, what he does when he’s alone but he doesn’t want to be. When Zayn hogs the blankets and the fireplace dies down so Harry can’t watch it rise and fall in time with Zayn’s chest, Harry first stood at the window, before he got brave enough to climb out and sit at the edge of the roof with his feet dangling freely in the air.

It isn’t a party trick, nothing like what Zayn does when he flicks on a flame with a snap of his fingers or Niall, making an entire room laugh and weep interchangeably until someone shouts for him to stop, because they can’t take it any longer. It’s just something Harry tried once, because the thought of doing it sounded magical and he almost had it that first time, could feel it working in his chest. So he kept doing it, any time Harry couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking. He thinks he has it now, he thinks he’s ready to show Zayn.

It feels like rewinding time. It looks like Harry is turning the day around, spinning it the wrong way around the sun. He says, “Watch,” under his breath and feels Zayn’s eyes on the side of his head as Harry presses his hand flat against the roof tiles and focuses on the sun that’s still hiding below the horizon. The muscles in his arm constrain and stiffen, and it’s like he’s holding onto the weight of the world in his hand as he raises his arm and with it, the sun. It’s slow, like he’s turning minutes into seconds, dragging the entire sky up with the tips of his fingers, changing the colors from a still darkness to plum and fire and something that’s alive again, vibrant and awake.

“Wow,” Zayn murmurs under his breath as he leans forward, trying to get closer to it.

Harry releases a breath and watches as the sun peeks over the top of the trees on their street, how it hangs there, unnatural and imposing, confusing the birds sleeping in their nests, the people making their way home. Like it’s a different sun, it has a white shine to it, brighter and bigger, more luminous than the one not scheduled to appear for a few more hours. He turns his head to look at Zayn, his lips parted slightly as he keeps his eyes on the sun, his fiery eyes that glow when Harry lets his arm fall, bringing back darkness just as fast as he took it away, turning back time, slowing it back down until the world spins towards the sunrise again.

“That’s incredible.”

Harry blushes and shakes his arm out. He’d never admit how much it takes it out of him. “I’ve been practicing.”

“I can see that,” Zayn smiles. His eyes are tired, the flame in them nearly extinguished as he blinks lazily towards the night again, slouching over his knees. Harry gets stuck on it, on those flickering flames always present his irises and wonders what would make them ignite and explode, run under Zayn skin in a flash of heat.

Harry thinks about what he could do, everything he’s already done and tried, the things he knows ignite the flame, as he’s leaning closer to him, keeping his eyes on Zayn’s when he’s barely an inch apart for a second longer to see if there’s any change before he touches his hand to Zayn’s neck. There’s a small burst of red right when Harry closes the space between them and kisses him.

A spark of heat runs from Zayn’s lips to Harry’s just as he pulls away, and Zayn’s already shaking his head at him with a smile, but Harry doesn’t get to know if it’s disapproval or because Harry clouds over his thoughts like he does the sky when the sun is too bright, too big. Harry doesn’t know if it’s to shake away the same feeling Harry gets, like Zayn’s burning through his coherency, because Zayn’s scooting closer and saying, “Do it again,” as his skin warms up again, chasing the morning cold away.

 

 

January 2016

 “Zayn, are you listening to me?”

“Mmm.”

“So no?” Harry checks over his shoulder and sure enough, Zayn’s face is pressed into the pillow, bending his nose and leaving creases along his cheek. He’ll look rumpled and half dead when he tries stands up. He’ll search for a place to put his weight and he’ll end up stubbing his toe against the nightstand. Harry’s done this before, he knows what’s in store for him, so maybe he could let Zayn sleep for five more minutes, but he doesn’t think it matters if it’s four in the morning or five past. “Wake up,” he drawls out, shaking Zayn’s shoulder. Nothing happens. There’s a pitiful groan he ignores as he steels himself for the last resort. He breathes deeply, feeling like it’s the last inhale he’ll get, before he grabs at Zayn’s pillow and pulls it right from underneath Zayn’s head, waking him up in a one fell swoop.

“What the – Are you crazy?” Zayn’s sitting up in bed, eyes open and probably trying his best to convince himself not to murder Harry. Zayn would get away with it though, he’s smart enough to get away with anything. But that’s not why Harry woke him up at the ass crack of dawn, although he’s sure Zayn wouldn’t mind the praise.

“You’re awake, great.”

“Harry, I swear to –” Zayn starts and Harry can picture him wagging his finger and threatening to pull ears, give a time-out for misbehavior. It clogs Harry’s mind, because it’s four in the fucking morning and he’s not all that awake either.

So he shakes his head and smiles. “Happy birthday!” he’s screaming in the next second, throwing himself on top of Zayn and tipping him backwards, kissing his neck and jaw and cheeks and any other part of Zayn that happens to be close to his lips.

He didn’t exactly want to wake Zayn up with the full force of his body weight landing on his back, so Harry had to set an alarm for himself – that Zayn didn’t bat an eye at – walk downstairs to the kitchen without waking Sasha, who’d have a similar reaction to Zayn’s, find the cupcakes he had to hide from Niall’s midnight snack raid and wake up Zayn. Which is why Harry woke up at three and it’s also why his thoughts keep on running away from him, still lost somewhere in between dreams and lying on top of Zayn.

Zayn’s finding it in himself to laugh, but he’s still chiding, “Why couldn’t this wait until morning?”

“It is morning.”

“Harry…”

“What? It’s your birthday.”

“It’s…” Zayn twists his neck to see the alarm clock with the big neon red numbers, like they’re yelling at them how early it is and that they’re both stupid for being awake. Harry kisses his neck again to ease the blow. “Four in the fucking morning.”

“Because you were born at four in the fucking morning, Zayn, so it’s nobody’s fault but yours,” he murmurs quietly into Zayn’s skin, because he never wanted to escalate the moment. All he wanted was to be the first one to wish him a happy birthday because Harry wants to keep the tradition going. It’s lasted for the last five years, he wasn’t about it break it now.

“Or my mom’s.”

“Yeah? You wanna call Trisha and tell her that.”

“Oh shut up,” Zayn groans against Harry’s arm where it’s been thrown above his head, biting into the flesh and making Harry yelp indignantly.

“I made you cupcakes?” he offers quietly as he tries to extricate his arm from Zayn’s mouth. Sucking a bruise is usually sexy, but Zayn tends not to drool as much as he is now. He hums, clearly tempted enough. He licks over the fresh bruise that’s going to stay there for who knows how long – whatever it is, it won’t be long enough in the end – and makes grabby hands at Harry.

“Give me my cupcakes.”

“I don’t know if you deserve them anymore.”

“Do you want me to bite you on the ass?” Zayn might think it sounds threatening, but Harry can imagine that happening. He can remember it happening not that long ago actually. Sweaty and panting, he got off the bed to find them something to clean off with quickly, because Zayn’s always hated the feeling of come drying on his back, but when he found an old t-shirt on the floor and bent down to pick it up, Zayn bit his ass, right in the middle of his left cheek. Harry could feel the bruise for a week afterwards, not that he minded. Harry didn’t mind the apology blowjob or the bruise he got a week afterwards, right in the middle his right ass cheek either.

“Is that a promise?” He stops in his tracks, hands on his hips and actually waits for Zayn to clarify, because he’s jumping back on top of him if it’s a promise. Cupcakes can wait. Zayn’s birthday and everything else can wait.

“Stop being a little shit,” Zayn flops on the mattress. “You woke me up at four in the morning and you won’t even give me my birthday cupcake.”

Harry ignores him completely. “I made chocolate ones with sprinkles on top.” He made twenty-two double frosted cupcakes with not only sprinkles on them, but rainbow sprinkles, and as a culinary-expert-to-be, Harry knows the rainbow makes all the difference. He won’t tell Zayn he’s made that many though, because he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened three years ago. Harry’s surprised he can even look at the things anymore, because Louis bet him he couldn’t eat all nineteen of them, all double frosted, all stuffed with chocolate and vanilla cream. Zayn got to fifteen before things turned for the worst. So Harry diligently picks up two cupcakes, one for each of them, and carries them to the bed, where Zayn’s sprawled on his back with his hands grabbing at the air.

“You always make chocolate ones,” Zayn observes from the bed, his eyes lighting up.

“They’re your favorite,” Harry shrugs. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t make chocolate cupcakes. “Come on, sit up.”

“I don’t want to,” Zayn whines. “It’s my birthday, I can do what I want.”

“Sit or you don’t get your cupcake.”

“Why are you so bossy lately?” Zayn scoffs, but he gets up, sitting in the middle of his bed with Harry crossing his legs opposite him. He waits a second longer just to annoy Zayn a little and then he hands him the desert with a little trumpet impression. “And mean.”

“You like it when I’m bossy.”

Zayn grimaces and pulls the blankets closer to his waist. “That’s such a cheesy line, Harry,” he says, shivering as he unwraps the bottom of the cupcake, sprinkles falling down onto his white sheets. Harry wants to tell him to put on a t-shirt or warm himself up or else he’s gonna catch a cold, and Zayn knows how cranky he gets when he’s sick – not that Harry minds Zayn’s foul moods, but Zayn does, and that becomes a circle of bad attitude Harry does not want to deal with – but Zayn’s too occupied with his cupcake. The fireplace died as soon as Zayn woke up and with Harry’s tendency to leave all the windows open, they both have goose-bumps crawling over their skin. “I’m gonna have to ask you to try better on my birthday. I only expect the best lines from you today.

“Yeah? Like what?” Harry smirks and leans over to him, keeps his eyes on Zayn’s as he takes a bite for himself. It’s all very elegantly done, except for how Zayn ends up dropping the entire thing as soon as Harry leans back, making a chocolate mess of his sheets.

“That’s, um,” Zayn clears his throat, “that’s better.”

Harry grins, wide and happy, the sultry tone of his face dropping as quickly as it came.

////

Harry doesn’t know where they came from, but there are pillows and camping chairs, the kinds you fold up to a stick, all of them spread around an oval circle on their back terrace. It was supposed to drizzle tonight, nothing heavy, just water in the air all night long as clouds covered the sky like a lid. But Harry couldn’t have that, he couldn’t let rain ruin Zayn’s party like that, put a damper on the mood when he made cake and Niall bought enough alcohol to get everyone nicely drunk. They planned a barbeque, so it had to be sunny, hot enough for single layers in early January – the perfect time for snow in Providence. Harry already knows what call is coming tomorrow morning as soon as Anne wakes up – _Sunshine, I know you meant well, but…_ – it didn’t make Harry think twice about it.

They sat on the roof, Zayn with his third cupcake in his lap, because he knows what string to pull for Harry to give him anything he wants, and blankets around their shoulders, the day barely turning around as the sun crawled over the horizon. Harry cleared his throat and Zayn let his attention fall from the cupcake and up to the overcast sky. They didn’t do it often, knew it wasn’t right to play with the weather like that, but Harry’s done it often enough for his arm to know the motion already, like a dance you keep practicing until you don’t have to look at your feet anymore, hearing the song in your chest. His palm flat against the tiles, Harry focused on the clouds, feeling their leisurely sway in his feet– rain is always in his feet, like it wants to take him dancing – as he raised it, fingers pulling into a tight fist. They watched the clouds disperse and disappear, rolling away farther than their eyes could follow from the roof, and just like that, they didn’t care if it was four in the morning, because Zayn had his chocolate cupcakes and a beautiful sunny day for his birthday. It was the best gift Harry could think of.

Harry reserves sunny days for special occasions, for birthdays and the times Niall isn’t there to make Zayn light up as his nose is stuck in a textbook or a paper or when nothing but the perfectly round sun will bring him out of the library. And those days are spaced too close together, sometimes it feels like it’s all Zayn does – studies, does homework, or works, sorting old books on dusty shelves as Harry sits on the floor and watches him sneeze, saying ‘bless you’ under his breath or Zayn shushes him with a finger pressed to his lips.

Rain is never intentional. Rain just happens, all by itself a cloud opens up and the air smells of late autumn no matter the month, because the earth gets wet, drenched until it can’t take anymore and the water starts spilling over pavements and thunder claps overhead. When Harry was recommended for a minor job at a restaurant by one of his professors, he split the sky open with a ray of sunshine, because he wanted the sun to be there, to see how well Harry was doing, to smile with him as he ran home to tell Zayn how he was finally doing it, finally cooking for someone other than his friends. But when Harry didn’t get it, because he wasn’t the only one applying for the job, wasn’t the only student to be recommended, he didn’t want the rain to follow him home, didn’t want his socks to get wet and his jacket to give under the heavy pouring. Harry felt it in his fingers, knew a storm was coming and he was able to hold it back, he was able to do that, but he couldn’t make the rain stop. He can’t ever make the rain stop.

He likes to think that when he meets his other half, his always and forever, the person he’s supposed to be with, that that will be the shift. All of a sudden, he’ll be able to make the rain stop and bring around the sun instead, sweep the clouds away and forget they were ever there. It’s how he’ll know, that will be the thing, the shift, the feeling deep in his bones. The rain will stop.

“What are you talking about?” Louis asks, slurring his words as his face scrunches up and if it wasn’t aimed at Harry, he’d think Louis actually looks cute like that, all confused and annoyed.

“Just…” Harry sighs, leans against the legs behind his back, looks up at the clear night sky. “I want to make the rain stop.”

“By a show of hands, how many of you know what he means by that?” Louis says loudly, laughing along with Niall, because no one raises their hand. There’s not a single hand up in the air. Harry feels like whining. Even strangers, people he’s never seen before aren’t taking his side. If they knew who made it possible for them to sit outside on pillows in nothing but t-shirts when they should be shivering in their jackets and scarfs, they might change their minds.

That’s too many words to say though, so Harry settles on, “I just want to meet my soulmate already and be done with it.” He presses his face against Zayn’s calf, wraps his arms around it. “I wish it was you Zayn. I really do. I think I could make you happy. We could be happy together.”

Because everything would be so easy. He wouldn’t even have to sleep in a new bed or anything, he’d just carry the rest of his clothes to the room next to his and that would be it. And he’d get to kiss Zayn whenever he wanted wherever he wanted and Zayn wouldn’t swat him away. They could hold hands and Harry could lean into him when they’d go to a bar, like Louis always leans into Liam, like Liam’s always holding Louis’ hand, because he knows what’s good for him. Louis can manage a good sonic scream when Liam does something wrong. It’s like the shift reverses when he’s pissed off at his soulmate.

A kick at his legs brings Harry back to the pillow circle they made for Zayn’s birthday, because it really hurts. Someone, Louis most likely going by his frowny face, just kicked him in the shin. _Hard_.

“Excuse you,” Harry says down at Louis when he stands up on wobbly feet. But it’s okay, Zayn’s holding him by his waist to steady him – which only proves how right he is. So he plops down on his lap instead, to get far away from Louis’ stupid feet.

“Do you need some water?” Zayn asks from behind his ear, brushing the hair out of Harry’s face.

“Do I have to?” He only asks, because he knows he does. Zayn hates hangovers enough to help Harry avoid his.

So Harry stays in Zayn’s lap as Liam brings him three water bottles, because Liam likes to be funny like that and some chips that he nibbles on while Zayn keeps taking and passing on blunts that smell like something horrible caught fire. People keep talking, keep rolling more blunts and drinking more beers as Harry watches on, a chip in his hand, the bag in his lap, water bottle in Zayn’s hand in his lap.

The sky is still clear, holding up even if Harry could do more than maybe bring about a breath of fresh air. He can see the starts twinkling at him, winking from high above like they’re telling him a cheeky secret. Harry wouldn’t mind having  stars in his eyes, or maybe sunshine so they could light up just like Zayn’s, explode a little when he’s happy. They could twinkle together.

“I think someone’s ready to go to bed.”

Harry hums, picturing clean sheets and the fire going at his feet, being cocooned in warmth as cool air licks at his shoulders. He hums again and licks the salt from his lips, thinks about drinking more water.

“Are you asleep?” Zayn asks behind his ear again. . He's never close to Harry when they’re outside like this, amongst people, with their friends, under the sky. Not if it isn’t four in the morning and a blanket isn’t wrapped around the both of them to chase the cold away. Zayn should lean in closer though, should put his lips on Harry's ear, bite it a little.

 “Maybe.”

“Come on, up you go.”

“What, why?” Harry whines as he’s lifted up and put back on his feet. He wobbles only a little.

“I’m taking you to bed.”

“You are?” Harry smirks at Zayn. Maybe things changed, maybe he can smirk at Zayn like that tonight.

But Zayn’s taking a step back and frowning at him, shaking his head in a way Harry recognizes. He knows what this shake means. It’s his disapproving shake, the slightly disappointed and on the way to being angry shake. “Walk, come on.”

“Fine, I’m waking.” Harry takes two steps and then suddenly remembers his manners. He turns around with a wide smile, looking over Zayn’s shoulder as he waves at the people still sitting down. “Good night everyone, thanks for coming.”

A sound of _thanks_ and _go to sleep you idiot_ makes it to Harry right before Zayn guides him into the house with a hand on the small of his back, pushing Harry along.

“I think it was a success.”

“Why don’t you concentrate on what you’re doing?”

Harry pouts. He’s sitting on the bedroom’s floor with a boot in his face and his hands around his ankle. Maybe he’s having a hard time taking it off, but Zayn’s being unnecessarily mean about it. “Then help me out, please.”

“You’re a big baby, you know that?”

“Yeah, well…”

“Well what?” Zayn tugs and the boot is off. It must have something to do with his ability. Fire melts leather, it has to be why.

“I don’t know, I forgot.”

“Get on the bed.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Harry jumps up, salutes Zayn and falls backwards on the bed, lucky enough that it’s right there, because he may have forgotten to look. He’s still in his jeans, so Harry starts working on those before he gets really comfortable and wakes him all tangled up because he tried to get them off in his sleep. Even drunk, he remembers his past mistakes.

It’s a difficult task though, because he can’t get the button undone right away, so he spends longer on it than he has the will to, but it finally unhooks and he’s almost free from the constraint. If he’d remembered to put on sweats, this wouldn’t be a problem. He wouldn’t have a problem, he’d just slide them off. He could sleep in sweats. This way, he has to tug at the bottom of his jeans and hope they give sooner than he runs out of steam and just falls asleep like he is, jeans pulled to the middle of his thighs.

After he’d done and his legs are bare, Harry tucks himself under the covers. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling until his head starts spinning and he has to turn over on his side. He can’t remember right now, but he knows he picked the left side of the bed when they moved in. Zayn already had a photo of his family on the nightstand, his reading glasses perched on it, waiting for darkness to fall so he’d crawl onto the bed and read before he’d fall asleep with the book on his chest. But Harry wanted this side, the left side. He opens his eyes to see why, figure out what about this side was so appealing he had Zayn move all of his stuff. His eyes land on the open window.

Because Harry wants to be close to the sky. He wants to be able to move the curtains with a quick breeze and count the starts, play with the clouds, feel the air on his skin as he lies in bed. Harry needs to sleep on the side that’s closest to the window. He remembers the speech he’d given Zayn with his eyes on the moon. _You have your fireplace, let me have my sky._ It didn’t take more than that for Zayn to give in. That was a good day.

Harry closes his eyes again, breathes in a couple of times as the door cracks open and Zayn tiptoes inside, closing the door behind himself. Even walking as lightly as he is, Zayn makes too much noise. He stubs his foot on something, forgets to curse under his breath and then he’s stomping, giving up and huffing loudly as he walks.

Harry raises his head to see what he’s doing, why Zayn hasn’t joined him already. Maybe he went back to the party, the birthday party they threw for Zayn that Harry only slightly ruined by getting to drunk. The water’s working though, the room staying where it is as he looks at Zayn walking over to the fireplace to get the fire going. Zayn puts a piece of log on the cement floor and with a snap of his fingers aimed towards it, it catches fire, the flames reaching higher than Harry can see from the bed. Zayn stays crouched in front of it, keeps his eyes on it, keeps breathing loudly enough for Harry to hear him. He groans under his breath. Harry  never liked it, the fact that Zayn insist on thinking quietly to himself, just in his head where Harry can’t hear him. He should do it out loud and turned towards Harry so that he can give him advice, help him, do anything Zayn wants him to do. So Harry lifts his arm and waves his fingers at Zayn, sending a breath of fresh air from the open window to the back of his neck.

Zayn places a hand over it, covering the sliver of skin up, but Harry just aims it lower, to the small of his back, to his bare thighs.

“I see you’re still awake.”

“Come here.” Harry’s pouting, not that Zayn can see from where he’s still crouching in front of the fireplace, his skin glowing with the orange light, illuminated in the dark room. Maybe he’d look like this if he’d set himself on fire, maybe he wouldn’t be like Johnny Blaze, all wild fire and metal bones. Maybe Zayn could do that thing and burn in blue.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’d be better if you’d come here.”

“Tough luck.” Harry can hear the smirk in his words. And then a gasp when he throws a pillow at his back. “Being mean isn’t going to make me move faster.”

“Really?” Harry’s smiling in victory, because Zayn’s straightening up and stretching his arms over his head, giving Harry a show from the bed. The muscles along his back stiffen and tighten and then ease up again when his arms fall back to his sides. Harry’s always appreciated Zayn’s broad back. “Can you come here, please?” He makes grabby hands at the air to emphasize his need for them to be closer.

“You’re touchy when you’re drunk.”

“You like it when I’m touchy.” Harry spreads his legs apart, lets Zayn crawl in between until he’s lying on top of him, braced with his hands by Harry’s head. This is much better, this is what Harry wanted. Again, just to emphasize his point, he runs his hands over Zayn’s back, settling his grip on his narrow waist.

Zayn smiles down at him, which Harry takes to mean _yes_ , but then he whispers, “I kinda do, yeah,” before he kisses him, so it’s confirmed three times in about a second. Which is good, it’s great, Harry should really focus on the kissing though.

Zayn’s letting some of his weight rest on Harry, his bony hips slotting against Harry’s cushioned ones, their legs tangled, lips wet and soft, Harry’s slightly numb. But he’s not drunk though, he’s definitely sobered up in the last minute, because he can’t get hard when he’s drunk, like his brain is protecting him from making stupid mistakes. But he’s hard now, he can definitely feel the blood rushing from his head to his chest and down to his stomach, as Zayn runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Are you okay?” Zayn asks, pulling back and looking down at him again. This is Zayn’s best angle, when he’s hovering right above your face, so you can appreciate the line of his jaw with your teeth, the swoop of his eyelashes, his cheekbones with a light touch of your fingertip. If they had the lights on it would be better, Harry would be able to see better.

“Yeah, why?” Harry kisses his neck, licks a thick line up to his jaw. He can’t stop doing that since the first time. It send a shiver down both of their spines.

“Just asking.”

“I’m okay,” Harry reassures. He wraps a leg over Zayn’s ass, pulling him down on top of him, putting more weight on their hips. Zayn’s hard too. “I’m perfect.”

Zayn smirks at him again, licks over his lips. He tastes like beer and weed, smoky but not fire. “What do you want to do?”

He pretends to think about it, looking pointedly at the ceiling as he taps his chin with a finger. They end up laughing as Harry says, “It’s your birthday,” in what he thinks is a sultry voice. “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” Zayn’s eyes shine.

“Okay, no, not whatever.”

“You can’t just take it back like that.” Zayn lifts himself up higher. It looks like he’s floating, and Harry doesn’t like it. It looks like Zayn’s floating away. “I had a whole plan.”

“Yeah?” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. Maybe he wants to know what that plan entailed. Maybe he’d be ready to do just about everything if Zayn asked him. It is his birthday.

“Not really, no.”

“I guess it’s just regular sex for us then.” Harry means it as a joke, because there’s nothing regular about watching Zayn’s eyes slip closed, hearing how his breath hitches until it’s gone completely, lost like it’s never coming back again. “But you could still do the thing.”

Zayn sighs. “Every time? Really?”

“What? It looks cool.”

“It looked cool the first time.” The first time, it took Harry’s breath away and that doesn’t happen. Harry _is_ breath and air and the wind from the mountains – not the sea – a current on the blue sky.

He isn't supposed to lose his breath, but every time they're like this, Zayn above him or Harry in Zayn's lap, standing up against the wall or against the counter in the kitchen, and Zayn lights the candles with his eyes, the candles Harry spaces around the house since the first time, Harry's breath gets knocked out of him, like the candles need it, like Zayn needs it to light them.

"It's amazing, so shut up and do it."

Zayn tries to frown and look serious around the smile breaking around the corners of his lips, and just as Harry's about to comment on it, tell him he looks adorably grumpy, he's closing his eyes and Harry knows to be quiet. At first they only had two candles, both on the night stand Harry uses, both single wick. They were in the same position as they are now, except Harry had both pf his legs wrapped around Zayn's waist so he was able to lift his hips when Zayn got too distracted biting a bruise in his peck to grind down. Harry sunk his nails into the skin just above Zayn's ass and felt hpw the tension in his stomach was building, boiling, heating up just like Zayn's skin. He moaned,  "I'm gonna come, just like this," out of breath, not knowing what else to do, not knowing how to stop, not wanting to. And Zayn just looked down at him. He stared until he realized what Harry was saying and his eyes lit up, exploded with an orange light that sparked the entire room on fire. Or that's what it felt like, air lodged somewhere in his throat as the candle next to Harry's head lit up with it, Zayn's eyes a fire so blue, it looked like a summer sky, as clear as only Harry can make it, as deep as the ocean. But Harry couldn't  focus on that, because he was coming and he couldn't breathe and he swore he felt that spark run through him too. In a moment of slight coherency, Harry thought he saw the candle's flame turn into a shade of blue just as he finally took a breath, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure it happened until Zayn let out a whispered, "Fuck," with his eyes still on fire, still as blue, still as deep.

Since then, Zayn's learned how to do it without making Harry come just by rubbing himself against his thigh and Harry hasn't stopped asking. Zayn's aware Harry won't ever stop asking, because the next day their room was over flowing with candles, blue and red and white and black, single wick, triple wick, small and squared ones on both nightstands, on the table, above the fireplace and on the floor. Harry doesn't count how many there are anymore, he just wants to see all of them light up at once, some more orange while others burn in an icy blue.

"Stop rushing me," Zayn snips, kissing Harry quick and dirty again, probably trying to distract him. It works. Harry’s going to catch fire one of these days because of Zayn and his lips. It's funny to think about how nervous Zayn was about his first kiss, the one that started all of this in the first place. He almost didn't let Harry kiss him, this almost wouldn't be happening. But sometime along the line, Zayn's learned how to move his lips and touch his tongue to Harry's bottom lip to make him chase it, like a game he likes to play. He knows how to kiss Harry, just kiss, not like it's the first step leading to something - to his hands underneath his t-shirt or his ass. It's like all Zayn wants to do is kiss Harry and listen to the sounds he makes.

So Harry hums into it, presses them closer together with a hand on Zayn's cheek to tell him he isn't rushing, that he can be patient and wait forever if that's how long it takes.

It must work, because Zayn breaks the kiss and as he breaths over Harry's wet lips, he knows it's coming, he's ready to never breathe again. Zayn closes his eyes, blinks softy, as if he's waking up in the middle of the night. His eyes were a kindled red, embers flying in his irises, but as he looks down at Harry then, opening his eyes slowly, his eyelashes curling into arcs, it's like gasoline was thrown on the flames. Taking over his eyes, the fire sparks over Zayn's skin, glowing in a hot red underneath Harry's fingers and high up into the room, like it wants to escape and run wild, set fire to the whole world. It only reaches the candles with a flick of a flame, a sound of muffled thunder and the room is illuminated by fire that always knocks Harry's breath away.

"See?" he says once he gets it back, his eyes on the blue flame right next to them on his night stand. "It's amazing. Every time."

Zayn ducks his head down, leaning his forehead against Harry's shoulder. He never said it takes a lot out of him or that he gives a piece of himself to that fire, but Harry can feel it in the cold sweat on his back. Zayn's never cold. He doesn't know how to be cold.

“Come here.” Harry's letting his leg fall back to the bed so he can pull Zayn higher up to his chest.

Zayn groans, clearly not wanting to move, but when Harry pinches the back of his thigh, he gets with the program with a quick gasp. "What are you thinking?"

“I'm thinking,” Harry starts. When Zayn's knees are bracketing his chest, Harrys hooks his thumbs into his boxers and pulls down just enough to get his cock out. He can't help but lick his lips. "I'm thinking I'm gonna blow you while you get yourself ready. How does that sound?" Because it is Zayn's birthday and Harry would give him anything he’d want.

“That sounds... yeah, that sounds good.” Zayn pushes his boxers down to tuck them below his ass and now Harry wants to be behind him instead, spread him apart and make Zayn set fire to the new Marvel posters he put on his walls this morning. That sounds much better actually.  “Let me just get the –” he says as he leans over to his night stand, opening the first drawer to get the lube and the condom, and Harry's still thinking about what he could do to Zayn if he turned around, so he doesn't really think about it. He just parts his lips and stretches his neck a little, sticking his tongue out and licking over the tip of Zayn's cock, hard and wet.

“Harry.” Zayn’s thigh shakes as he rights himself, dropping the packets on the pillow.

And maybe it's the fire in Zayn's eyes or the breeze drifting in from the window that's giving him a sudden volt of energy, but he feels like the only way to respond is to keep his eyes on Zayn's and suck around the head, slurping like he knows Zayn likes.

Zayn's arms shoot out to brace against the wall. He gasps, “Slow down,” and Harry does the opposite, grabbing Zayn's thighs and pulling his closer to his mouth, taking him in deeper against his flattened tongue. Harry's always liked when Zayn lost his breath too. “Don't stop,” Zayn's saying, “don't stop,” as he moves his hips, rolls them up a bit, just to make Harry take more.

But this wasn't the plan. He'd blow Zayn every night if he could, but Harry wants to fuck him more, so he tries to find the lube and throw it at Zayn, hopefully saying to get on with it please, _or else I'm coming like this._

“Yeah, just, don't stop.” Zayn tears the sachet with his teeth. He always does that, never with his hands.

Harry tries to say that he won't stop, not until Zayn tells him to, but he ends up moaning around him and that only makes Zayn throw his head back and drip lube all over Harry's chest.

They both get it together though. Harry keeps a steady rhythm, bopping his head around the tip while he keeps his hand working over the rest in tight and then loose strokes, and Zayn keeps stifling the mewling noises that are trying to escape him every time his arms moves. Harry doesn't know why he thought this would be fun, to have Zayn sitting on his chest like this when he can't see anything. He doesn't know what happens when Zayn gasps, if he just added another finger, if he scissored them apart or if it's Harry who's doing something right.

He feels himself getting impatient, so Harry pinches Zayn's thigh, asking if he's ready. Zayn nods his head, throws it back with a gasp when Harry licks around his tip before he able to breathe through his mouth again.

“What do you want to do.”

“Let me just scoot back,” Zayn says, his voice rough, like he was the one with a cock hitting the back of his throat. But harry doesn't say anything though, because Zayn is moving back down to sit over Harry’s lap again, tearing the wrapper with his teeth, always his teeth.

“Oh god, yes,” Harry sighs when Zayn finally rolls the condom on him. He jerks Harry off once, twice, making Harry's toes curl with the brief pleasure.

“You're good, yeah?” Zayn asks then, holding himself up while he holds Harry in place, ready to sink down. They've never gotten over this part, asking if they’re okay, _are you sure?_  like they ever haven't been. But the pause always makes Harry beat faster, whether it's him who's ready to sink down on Zayn or not, the seconds it takes for one of them to ask and the other to answer sends a thrill down his spine.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm good.”

Zayn nods to himself, licks over his lips and with an exhale, he lowers himself on to Harry, slow and steady, letting Harry hold him up slightly when it gets to be too much too soon.

First it was prom night, because they wanted to and it felt right and they would do it again if they had the chance. And then it was half drunk and half asleep in the quiet of the night until Zayn's kneeling over Harry's lap, hands on his own chest as rolls his hips and gasps, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," with his eyes closed and his skin burning.

Harry's holding him by his hips, pulling him up and pushing him down in time with his own hips, because they've don’t this enough times to know how they work, what they have to do, that Zayn comes first because that last hitch of his breath always pushes Harry over the edge.

“Please, please,” Harry pleads, he begs. He wants to see Zayn come.

“Yeah, fuck.” Zayn leans forward so he's braced on his hand while he grabs himself with the other, jerking himself off. Harry was for it, keeps lifting his hips, bringing Zayn closer as he waits for him to open his eyes. Because when Zayn does, the fire is blue and he isn't breathing, his muscles tense, and he's coming over his hand, clenching around Harry.

A second of silence wraps itself around them tightly where there's nothing but them - Zayn trembling and Harry screwing his eyes shut as he moans and comes and pulls Zayn on top of him.

They lie there as Zayn cools down, his skin still hot to the touch. The fireplace is crackling, Harry notices, still going, the flames flickering in time with Zayn's breathing. He wants to look at it next time, because he wants to know what happens when Zayn shuts down - does the fire die for that second?

“You smell like beer.”

“You smell like come,” Harry laughs into Zayn's hair where it's poking him in the face. “Do you want to shower or can we just fall asleep?”

Zayn lifts himself up on one elbow, aiming his head sideways towards the door. “I think there are still people outside.”

“And?”

“Oh yeah,” Zayn rolls off him, spreading himself over the bed. “Let's just walk to the bathroom naked and come stained, that won't give them any ideas.”

_So what if it does?_

Harry feels like he has ask. He doesn't always, but sometimes he does, because maybe Zayn's had a change of heart and his answer will change. It hasn't yet, but some day maybe it will. Until then, Harry will keep asking and hoping.

It's his own fault, he's the one who said no strings. But as long as that means Zayn would rather spend his birthday with Harry than the rest of his friends, Harry will also keep smiling at him with a wink, saying, “you're right,” as he brings Zayn closer to him to wrap an arm around his waist and slot his cold feet between Zayn's warm ones.

“We'll shower in the morning. “

 

 

March 2017

The cold seeps into his skin, crawling over the hairs on his arms, inside his velvet jacket lining, around his neck and up to his eyes, stinging as it licks at his skin the longer he pretends he isn’t just standing outside, moving from one foot to other, because he doesn’t know how to make himself climb the stairs. Harry could pull on the air, wrap a breath around his face like a scarf his grandmother made him back when she could still knit. He could. But Harry doesn’t, because he doesn’t play with the wind anymore. When a breeze comes around the corner and messes with his hair, twirling strands into the air like it’s inciting him, Harry frowns and grumbles, splays his palm open and flattens it, kills it with a single finger. He’s not in the mood to play.

He hasn’t been since the summer, lying on the bed he never slept on, a mattress fitting his body in the next room as hot air waved over his skin, his bare back and arms, drifting in through the open window. Harry could’ve walked the five steps to the other room, could’ve brought a breeze from the outside, let it play with the off-white curtains and his hair. Maybe his curls wouldn’t stick to his neck if he did. But Harry didn’t. He stayed in his room, in the heat, in the moment Zayn told him he’s met someone, someone he could be happy with.

“His name is Ethan.”

“Isn’t that…” Harry was sure he’d heard of an Ethan before, some friend of a friend in his memory, the name familiar but not quite.

“Actually, yeah, he’s Chris’s friend? He’s the one with the blond hair?”

With his fingers on his chest, Harry sputtered, “My, um… My Chris?”

Zayn smiled at him, but it held too much of something else, laced with not enough happiness. “I met him a couple of weeks ago.” _How time flies_ , Harry thought. _I never heard of an Ethan, you never mentioned him to me. A couple of weeks, that’s nothing._ It felt like forever, like Harry was out of the loop, no longer part of the crows, because how else could he have missed an entire person, an Ethan, in his life. “It’s still new.”

“Is he, um, are you two… is he your…”

Zayn smiled again, said, “He thinks so,” in that way Harry’s always envied Louis, because Harry’s never had a person to talk about like that, to have a tone of voice especially to say their name. “He said he felt the earth shake.”

Harry stared. He’s never heard that one before. Like a bubble in their chest ready to burst, like they finally knew, like they felt it in their bones, but not the earth to move, never the earth to move. It’s strange to think someone doesn’t feel the earth move when they meet Zayn, that shouldn’t be an indicator of anything.

“Oh.” Harry felt like he was losing something then, a game or a part of himself, he wasn’t sure, he still isn’t, he’ll probably never really know.

Zayn shook his head with a smile that said _goodbye_ and _I’m sorry_ and everything else Harry didn’t want to hear, like _you know this had to end sometime._ They stood there, in Zayn’s bedroom only a few feet apart, looking at each other, Harry not listening to a word Zayn tried to tell him with that smile, before Zayn said, “I guess this is it,” out loud and Harry had to hear that, he couldn’t close his ears and sing over him.

He packed his things – the clothes strewn on the floor, his mismatched socks, the Marvel posters on his walls, these ones untouched by fire. It didn’t hit Harry that he was helping Zayn pack until he had to unplug the charger they shared, roll up the cord and twist the end of it, because he was going to have to get his own now. He wouldn’t be able to unplug Zayn’s phone in the middle of the night anymore. He almost threw the fucking charger through the window.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Zayn said, his bag over his shoulder, boots on his feet, Harry with a lump in his throat.

Harry nodded, he waved, but he didn’t pick up the phone the next day, because he didn’t want to think about the earth shaking. Harry didn’t want to think at all.

He puts a foot on the first step and thinks, _here we go, almost there, just move the other foot_. He stands there, with his foot on the first step for five more minutes, thinking _here we go, almost there_. After another five minutes, he moves his other foot.

////

“Sorry I’m late,” he says around a tight lipped smile. He’s taking off his coat, so he doesn’t think anyone notices how red his face is from the cold. “I ran over here as soon as I got off work,” he adds preemptively.

“How was it?” Louis asks, like he’s gotten into the habit of doing. Harry doesn’t know why or he pretends like he’s as clueless as ever, but it’s still nice that someone cares, even if they don’t really. At least it sounds like Louis does. “Was it a big wedding?”

“Um, fifty people, I think?” Harry tries to count the heads in his head instead of looking around Niall’s living room. He’s happy to know he has some self-preservation left in him, but if Harry didn’t want to suffer, if he really wanted to save himself like he thinks he does, he wouldn’t have come tonight. And it’s not like they’re not used to it. _I don’t feel well, sorry. I’m stuck at work. Got an early shift tomorrow._ He never says it outright, that he doesn’t want to come, but they know. They all know why he only goes to lunch with Niall, or comes over to Louis and Liam’s place when he’s reassured no one else will be popping by unexpectedly. And no one ever says anything, because they know Harry won’t talk about it either. There’s nothing to tell.

“That’s big right?” Liam has the tone of a man who doesn’t want fifty people looking at him when he walks down the aisle. Or waits at the end of it, Harry doesn’t know what they’re going to do when the time comes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I have fifty sisters, so if you’re expecting to invite any less people, I don’t know what to tell you,” Louis drones, likes he’s had to countless times before.

“But,” Liam stutters to everyone’s enjoyment. They all laugh and chuckle, and as Harry stands there, he takes the first look around the room and almost immediately, he wishes he hadn’t.

Niall is standing next to him, one hand on Barbara’s shoulder, the other still nursing Harry’s jacket, because he has a coat closet. Harry still has trouble thinking about Niall, the boy who never remembered to put on a sweater once the seasons changed has moved into an apartment that has a closet just for coats. But then Barbara does seem like a person to have another closet just for her shoes too, a cupboard in the bathroom dedicated to guest towels.

Next to her on the couch are Louis and Liam, who’s looking up at Harry with panicked eyes, as if Harry can do anything to help him out of this situation. Liam still has a lot to learn when it comes to Louis, his future fiancé to be once Liam finishes his training. Who knew being a nurse took so much training? Not Liam.

And then there’s the love seat, velvet orange that matches the curtains hanging over big windows, open to catch some of the wind Harry’s trying not to push back. It would be so easy to close the windows and shut the drapes, just a flick of his pinky – an intense look and he could have some peace. The love seat is pushed up against the windows, a chair to read in with natural light pouring in over the pages as he imagines Barbara sips on a cup of chamomile tea. She looks like she drinks chamomile tea.

It probably sits one person comfortably, but two can squish on it, cross their legs together, throw a couple of limbs around shoulders and over thighs, something like what Ethan and Zayn are doing, sitting half over each other. The chair, much like Harry, looks like it’s about to fall apart under the weight.

“Are you two getting married?” Ethan asks Louis, looking around the room with amusement. Harry want to make him eat his own face.

“Not yet, no.”

“But you will be?”

“As soon as thing one pops the question,” Louis sighs, leaning into Liam. Harry’s relieved the attention didn’t stick to him, even if it seems like no one cares how late he was, because wedding receptions never end this late – after the cake, they get to go home. “If he ever does.”

“I told you,” Liam starts, like he’s had to before. “I need to get a job first.”

“I know, I know. It’s just taking you really long to do that. I already have two and you still have none, maybe I can give you one of mine.”

“Your improve class does not count as a job,” Niall drones.

“Yes it does.”

“You don’t even get paid.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “And that’s the only disadvantage.”

“But you want to get married?” Ethan breaks their back and forth. Harry’s almost thankful, but he can’t make himself feel anything other than suddenly exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Louis says easily.

“Why?”

Harry almost gives himself whiplash from how fast he turns his head when Zayn says the first thing since Harry walked into the apartment. It felt like he was intentionally quiet, like he was jabbering on before, when it was just the six of them, but the odd number of people threw him off somehow.

“I don’t know.” Ethan shrugs, moving Zayn with him as he does, who keeps his eyes on Ethan, steady on him and nothing else. For some reason, Harry feels ignored. “I never got the appeal of it.”

Harry can picture it already. The sunflowers along the aisle, in between pews that would be lined on his backyard, cherry blossoms at the back, rainbows instead of arches, birds as flower-girls making bright yellow petals fly from above their heads, so it would be raining flowers. Anne will like that.

“You don’t want to get married?” Zayn asks, turning towards Ethan, because it’s not like they were close enough before, they need to face each other as well.

Ethan scrunches his nose up. “I don’t think I do, no.”

“So that’s a hard no on marrying Zayn, then?” Louis asks with the kind of tone Harry would use as well. It’s important for your friends to have your back and help out when you can’t even open your mouth, little less sound clipped.

“Louis…”

“Well that’s what Zayn’s asking. I’m just being direct about it.”

“It’s not a no to Zayn,” Ethan says carefully, not that it matters by this point. “It’s just a no in general.”

“But also to Zayn – stop hitting me,” Louis smacks Liam on the chest and then apologizes right after. Not to Ethan though, which is the important part.

“Do _you_ want to get married?” Ethan asks. It sounds too much like a proposal, so Harry has to turn his eyes away from them just to breathe, _nothing’s happening, this isn’t a big deal_. This would be an ideal time to pull a cool breeze closer to his face.

Zayn groans, bites his bottom lip, because there’s something he doesn’t want to say. “I mean, yeah, I do.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve never talked about this before?” Niall asks. Barbara shakes her head at him.

“How long have you been dating?”

“I think it’s time for more drinks.” Liam stands up quickly, dislodging Louis from his side before he’s dragging him and Niall back to the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with Barbara and the couple that’s gotten suddenly quiet, each looking the opposite way, one through the window and the other right at Harry.

He nods curtly at Ethan, tries not to be too unenthusiastic about it and walks around the couch to sit next to Barbara. She’s probably as disinterested in what just happened as much as Harry’s pretending to be.

“Hey.”

“So how was the wedding?” she sighs, breathing out the tension.

“Oh, it was lovely,” Harry smiles for the first time that evening. “They’re sixty years old, been together for forty years and they final decided to tie the knot.”

“Really?” she grins at him, probably picturing the couple dancing their first dance.

He hums. “Barnaby and Ella. Their song was _Baby I Love Your Way_.” Harry hopes they had their first ever dance to that song as well. It would make it even more romantic. He doesn’t know what his song will be, but he has time to figure it out. He’ll figure it out.

“Oh, that’s a good song.”

“They were so happy,” he says as they smile at each other. Barbara’s like him, Niall told him before he moved out. She’s waiting for her soulmate, for someone that isn’t Niall, someone that makes her swoon into the air and never want to come back down. Niall doesn’t care though, he said he doesn’t mind being the one she has around while she waits. Niall is a special kind of person.

She settles into the couch more. “Soulmates?”

Harry nods. “She controls water and Barney makes ice. It’s perfect, they’re perfect.” It’s rare when soulmates have complimentary powers, when their both on the same spectrum. “She had this blue dress with silver pearls on it. They looked like snowflakes.”

“What do you do again?”

Barbara pears over Harry’s head, disgruntled to have lost the imagery, so she just frowns at Ethan, doesn’t answer him like Harry hoped she would. Without turning around, Harry says, “I’m a caterer.”

“Oh right, yeah. Do you only do weddings?”

“Mostly, yeah.” He’s looking straight at Barbara as he answers, because he doesn’t want to look at them if he doesn’t have to. They might’ve made up already, could be entwined on the love seat again. It’s an unflattering orange to look at.

“What’s your business called again?”

Harry feels his fingers tingle, like thunder claps right outside the window – for all he knows, it does. He breathes in deeply, taking a second to explain how it’s called Splendid but he didn’t have anything to do with the name, because it’s not his. Not even a little bit.

He has the name on the tip of his tongue, is ready to just not bother with the details of who owns it or what Harry actually does, because Ethan’s heard it all before. This isn’t the first time he’s asked and it isn’t the first time Harry’s told him. It’s isn’t even the second.

But before Harry do say anything, it’s Zayn who’s saying, “It’s not his business, he didn’t name it,” with an air of fire Harry can feel on his skin, raising goose-bumps with his voice.

Harry turns around to look at Ethan or to look at Zayn, he doesn’t know, he just turns around because he feels like he has to, but when he does, he sees Ethan sitting in the love seat by himself, because Zayn’s stood up, is patting his jeans pockets to find something.

“Where are you going?”

Zayn doesn’t even look at Ethan as he finds what he was looking for in his back pocket, says, “I need a cigarette,” and disappears to the balcony.

The heat doesn’t subside, Harry can smell something burning – milk, foaming over the edge of the pot, sizzling as it touches the hot stove and the smell of it burning sticking to the air – even when Zayn opens the glass door and closes it too fast behind himself, making Barbara whimper as it shakes the glass.

“Well,” Ethan feels he needs to say to ease the tension probably, like anything could at this point. They hear clatter in the kitchen, the boys probably making some kind of a mess, but Harry likes the sound of a kitchen being used, even if the chances of something breaking with those three is incredibly high, he’d take it over what he wants to think about right now. He can feel his mind start to drift when Ethan asks, “It’s called _Super_ , right? The business?”

Harry looks over at him. He looks like a wet dog, as if he’s been put out, his eyes a sad sort of pleading, so Harry says, “Yeah, it is,” because he doesn’t want to step on any flowers. He doesn’t want to make it any worse than it already is.

The line of questioning is broken, at last, as the boys stumble into the living room with pitchers of margarita that Harry ends up drinking half of. The other half is drunk by Zayn.

He’s happy for Zayn. He wasn’t at first, Harry will admit to that, because he had other feelings when he realized there really weren’t any strings left, not a single lone one that’s barely tethering them together, holding them close. After he stayed in bed for what felt longer than only two days, going to the kitchen every so often because there isn’t anything to keep him away from the stove, feeling like he was drenched in cold water and couldn’t shake it off, Harry thought about getting those strings back. He knew he could convince Zayn that Ethan wasn’t anything, that he wasn’t anyone, that he didn’t make his earth shake any more than Harry made Zayn’s eyes light up – it’s always there, Harry never was the reason for that fire, he just wanted to think he was.

But when Louis told him that Zayn’s happy, that he’s good with Ethan, that Ethan is good for Zayn, Harry was happy for him. Louis wasn’t happy in that particular moment though, because Harry had showed up at their place just because he needed to know, needed to give himself a break and finally know if it was good or burning up in flames like he liked to imagine.

The idea of convincing Zayn into anything floated up into the sky and never made it back down to Earth. Harry couldn’t even convince himself that the string-less thing they weaved themselves in was something they should’ve continued, Ethan or not. It lost its appeal when Harry realized they never got their terminology straight and he couldn’t even put his hand on the small of Zayn’s back without him squirming away, mouthing _later_ under his breath.

Harry had imagined what it would be like if he had met Ethan and his earth would shake and move and all that too, if it turned out they had the same person, the same soulmate, feeling the same feeling. Harry thought how great that would be, because maybe they’d end up making another deal and everyone would be happy and Zayn would stop squirming. Maybe he wouldn’t have moved out.

////

Harry’s taken on a tour of the apartment. He’s been over before, but he usually stays on the couch, nestled in between cushions as they watch a rom-com, just the three of them, each with their own bowl of popcorn because neither Barbara nor Niall are willing to share. And Harry needs those nights, to just watch Hugh Grant chase the girl and not think about anything else that’s happening in his life, because Harry doesn’t want to think about being a caterer, he doesn’t want to wonder how he ended up where he is, with a broken back from carrying heavy trays or champagne flutes around events he’d never be invited to. He doesn’t even get to make the food, he just hands it out.

But now he has a glass in one hand and a pitcher in the other, the liquid sloshing around as he waves his hands at the big bedroom Niall is standing in the middle of with his arms spread out, says, “Huh? What do you think?”

“It’s so big!” Harry spins on his heels, almost drops his glass, but recovers nicely, taking a deserving sip. “And the windows,” he tries to whistle, but just spits on his chin.”

“I knew you’d like the windows.”

“I _love_ the windows.” Walking right up to the glass wall, Harry presses his nose against one, leaving a smudge behind that will get cleaned tomorrow morning, because Niall and Barbara are adults now and adults clean their windows. “I’d kiss the windows if I could.”

“I bet you would,” Niall chuckles. “Hey, I also wanted to talk to you about something.”

“About what?” Harry spins again, but he makes sure to hold his glass more tightly this time. When he does though, Niall’s patting the space on the bed next to him and he doesn’t look all that happy, like he’d kiss the windows as well. “About what?” Harry repeats himself, he feels like he has to.

“Just… sit.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Harry.”

“O-oh,” he’s laughing as he walks over to the bed and plops himself on it with a little jump. He only spills margarita on himself, so it’s okay, he’s still okay. “You said my name in that tone,” Harry points the pitcher at Niall accusingly, not that Niall knows what he’s talking about.

“Yeah.” Niall’s breathing heavily, like he’s preparing to tell Harry his mom’s had a nasty car crash, but she hasn’t, Harry talked to her a few hours ago. “Look, I’m sorry about tonight.”

Harry frowns. “Why? What happened?”

“Well, we thought it would be good if we all got together, but it was probably too soon.”

“Too soon? Who thinks it was too soon?”

Niall looks at his palms like he’s going to find the answer there. “All of us.”

“Why?”

“You drank everything I had, Harry. This clearly wasn’t a good idea.”

There’s a wave of something sour circling his gut and Harry would like to blame Niall for putting it there, but it isn’t Niall’s fault, not entirely. If _all_ of them think it was too soon, that it wasn’t a good idea, then it’s _all_ of their fault. Harry had nothing to do with it. He showed up even when he didn’t want to, he was polite to Ethan even if he didn’t want to and he got drunk even if he didn’t want to, because he knew it was the only way to stay happy about Zayn and Ethan talking it out on the balcony until they were making out on the balcony and Louis wolf-whistled at them as if they were fifteen again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Harry.”

“No, stop.” He stands up and gives Niall the pitcher to hold while he empties the last of his drink, taking two gulps that hurt his throat, because he won’t sit here and listen to his name being said like that. Harry tried. He’s trying. He’s happy for everyone. “I come here and I don’t say anything inappropriate and I’m a what? A problem? Like a five year old child? Do you want to send me to my room, too?”

“That’s not what we’re saying.” Niall’s trying to calm him down. He’s trying to twist Harry’s mind with some relief and love, but the margarita’s doing its job. It’s like a metal helmet, not letting a single whiff of clarity through.

“Well it sounds like it to me!” Harry throws his hands open. He’s gripping the glass this time. “I could’ve refused to come, you know? Because I don’t have to be around that guy if I don’t want to be and I _don’t_ want to be. I want to be with my friends, with the people I actually _like_ , but he’s here and I didn’t say anything,” Harry whines, he needs to whine to let some of it out. “He keeps showing up and he keeps sitting in Zayn’s lap,” he’s walking back and forth now, getting into it, feeling the words slip past his lips, less than half in control of what he’s saying, “and I keep my mouth shut.”

“Harry, please –”

“I’m not done.” He stops, telling Niall, pleading with him to let him do this while he still can because as soon as he sobers up, he’ll be back on that couch, sitting quietly while the rest of them talk amongst each other, the even number of them. “I didn’t say anything when Zayn told me, you know? I didn’t say anything, not how I don’t like Ethan, not how stupid I think he is or how wrong he is for Zayn. I didn’t say anything when he asks me what I do, because he does every time we talk, Niall. Every single time we talk, he asks me what I do and you’d think he’d remember I’m a fucking caterer. It’s not hard to remember that, is it?”

He’s expecting Niall to say something, to agree maybe because he’s supposed to be on Harry’s side, always on his best friend’s side, but Niall just sits on the bed and looks past Harry, as if he doesn’t want to look at him like, when he’s saying everything he’s feeling.

“And you don’t know half of the shit that’s actually going on,” Harry starts to say, but he doesn’t finish, doesn’t say what he actually wants to, _because I never told you, because Zayn didn’t want everyone to know so no one did._ “So you don’t know how I’m always on my best behavior, because if I wasn’t, I’d tell Ethan and Zayn both to just fuck off.”

“You’d what?”

He doesn’t move, he probably doesn’t even breathe as he stands there, feeling betrayed and angry and too ashamed of himself to turn around. Harry’s fingers are thrumming again, vibrating with a storm as if the clouds are sitting in the palms of his hands, shaking with thunder, and he knows that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t turn around, because he can barely stand looking at Niall’s face. He doesn’t think he could handle seeing Zayn’s as well.

“If you want to tell us to fuck off, then you should.” Zayn’s standing closer now. Harry can almost feel the heat radiating from his skin. Almost but not yet. “If you want us to leave, then we will.” A shiver runs down Harry’s spine. “If you didn’t want me to be with him, then you should’ve fucking said something.”

The words are gritted through Zayn’s teeth, said with fire, actual fire behind them, because Zayn’s know how to be mad without fire. Harry knows that much. And he knows he’s going to have to turn around, he’s going to have to face Zayn, because Zayn won’t move and if Harry ever wants to leave – and he does, he wants to run away – he has to turn around to do it.

When he does, he finds Zayn standing closer than he thought, because it didn’t feel like he was _right there_ , standing so close to Harry’s back he should’ve felt his breath on his neck. Harry’s glad he didn’t.

He can feel a wave of warmth though, of heat from Zayn’s red hands. He must be madder than Harry thought, because his hands don’t get this hot, they’ve never been this hot before, not because of Harry. But Harry doesn’t know what to do anymore, he doesn’t know how to calm Zayn down like he used to not that long ago. His brain isn’t working properly to think of a way.

So he stays quiet, his lips pressed together as they stand there, staring at each other, waiting for someone to say something, anything. Because Harry can only focus on their closeness, on the cologne Zayn must’ve put on in the morning, only barely reaching Harry now. There’s a spark in Zayn’s eyes, wild and blazing, hot red like his hands, relentlessly reaching higher and higher in his irises. Harry can’t not look at it.

It’s Zayn who breaks their staring contest with, “I was done waiting for you a long time ago, so either say what you have to say or shut up and let me be happy.”

“I, um –” Harry stutters. He doesn’t know where to start, he doesn’t know what he wants to say now that he has the chance. He could probably say anything he wanted. _I’m sorry, I’m drunk, I don’t know what to do, I miss you but I can’t make myself call you back because I’ve forgotten how to be your friend._ “I want you to be happy.”

Zayn keeps staring at Harry, expecting him to say something else, add a _but_ to the end of his sentence – they’re all waiting for Harry to add a _but_ to the end of his sentence, because this is the time to do it. _But I don’t want you to be happy without me._

They stand there, in Niall’s bedroom with floor to ceiling windows as Niall sits on the bed, pretends like he isn’t there if he’s quiet enough, if he doesn’t move or say anything. Zayn looks lost and Harry feels like he did something wrong, because maybe he did. Maybe he really fucked up.

Zayn groans with a flame, a flash of fire that burst at his feet and goes to the top of his head in a lighting whoosh, too fast for Harry to know what just happened, before he turns around and leaves the bedroom, leaves Harry standing there with a glass hanging from his fingers. He has to walk around Louis at the doorway, bumping into him as he does, trying to get away from Harry as fast as he can.

In the end, it’s Louis who breaks the smog that’s left behind with a quiet and quick, “You’re both so stupid.”


	3. How It Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

 

_“When people fall in love, they burst into flames.”_

 - Jandy Nelson _, I’ll Give You the Sun_

_February 2018_

Harry doesn’t want to do it. He doesn’t want to open his eyes or throw the pillow from the top of his head or move or breathe possibly, if that’s an option. Not in the forever way though, where his photo would end up on the front page of the news, lying naked in bed on top of the covers, chocolate crusted at the edge of his lips, with the words _Young man chokes on his own pity_ hanging over his head.

Just for a little bit, so Harry can go back to his dream for five more minutes, so he can focus on his fantasy: standing in the middle of his own kitchen in a small quaint restaurant that smells like your childhood Sundays, of the times your mom made dinner fit for royalty. Just until whoever is knocking on his door will go away and never come back.

Groaning into the pillow, Harry hopes it’s Niall who’s come to upheave him from his bed, but Niall has a key and he’d call first. Or he would on any other day, but he wouldn’t be knocking this long, interchanging bangs with wraps of knuckles, like his hand was getting tired. Niall would knock once and then unlock the door, because he respects people’s privacy like that. That’s what he would do before he’d walk right into the kitchen, because there’s no hallways in Harry’s apartment, no walls barring off the living room or his bedframe pushed into the far left corner – and he would frown. After taking one look at the dishes piling up in the sink, the crusted and burnt food on the stove, the socks trailing to his bed, Niall would frown and say, “Harry,” with that tone Harry hates, because it gives his name some twisted meaning, as if he’s done something wrong.

If it was Niall, Harry would be sure to feel like shit.

Liam would knock once, twice, maybe three times, but he’d leave Harry alone, because Liam respects people’s privacy as well. Liam would understand that Harry doesn’t want to leave his bed, that he wants to stop breathing just long enough to pass out again to go back to his fantasy and Liam would definitely call first. But as Harry thinks of it, he isn’t sure where his phone even is.

Sasha wouldn’t bother coming over and Harry doesn’t think anyone from work actually knows where he lives. Which means the person Harry wants to see the least is knocking on his door. Or, the second in line on that list, whose knocks sound a lot like judgment, rude and impatient, mouth full of remarks about the socks. Niall would just kick them into a pile and have Harry promise to clean up.

Louis, though, he’ll make a big deal out of it, call him useless and pathetic – stupid seems to be Louis’ favorite thing to call Harry lately. It doesn’t have the desired effect when you know fully well just how pathetic you are even without someone pointing it out like a pimple on your forehead – you know it’s there, there just isn’t much you can do about it.

The knocking doesn’t stop. It won’t stop, not until Harry lets him in. Or he could see how insistent Louis really is, if it’s as much as Harry gives him credit for, because he’s already picturing Louis setting up camp in front of his door. He quickly goes over his supplies in his head, figuring he could last a good week before he’d completely run out of food. Harry could call in sick, could ration his portions.

Twisting his middle, Harry heaves his foot over the edge of the mattress so it lands on the floor with a loud thump. And Louis hears that, of course he does, because he stops knocking, the silence quickly followed by, “Fucking finally.”

“Give me a second,” Harry rasps towards the door. He sits up in bed, nurses his head in his hands. It would be understanding if he’s gone out drinking last night. It just happens that Harry usually wakes up with a headache and cotton in his mouth. It’s just always there, the clouds in his head, the stickiness on his tongue.

“Open the door, Harold.”

Harry scowls at the floor. “Give me a second,” he grits through his teeth. “Just a second.”

“I swear to god…”

He heaves a sigh and stands up, crosses the apartment in five steps and throws the door open. “What? What are you gonna do?”

“Call for reinforcement,” Louis says with a smile and a shrug, walking right past Harry. He whistles as soon as he’s three steps in. “Wow, you really let yourself go, huh?”

“Shut up.” He wants to slam the door, kick it closed, but he doesn’t want to give Louis the satisfaction, so he clicks it, even uses the handle.

“I mean, I love what you’ve done with the place.” Louis turns in a circle, his eyes landing on all the messes, one by one. “But maybe you should at least open a window.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Louis tends to not say Harry’s name with that tone, the one Harry hates. He has a look for him though, as if he can see through Harry, like he knows what he’s thinking and he feels either sorry or utterly disappointed for him. Harry doesn’t know which he hates more.

“So,” Louis says, clapping his hands together. Harry leans against the wall and gets ready for whatever’s coming. “As you may already know, Niall is planning a surprise birthday party for you.”

“He’s what?”

“Oh,” his mouth twists. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

“Well then. Niall is planning a surprise birthday party for you.” He shakes his hips, jazzing his fingers. “Surprise!”

Harry groans again. It’s becoming a theme today. “Great.”

“It will be.”

“Why are you telling me this?” _Please don’t say his name, please don’t say his name_.

“Because me and Liam talked and we came to the conclusion that everyone jumping in your face might just, you know… kill you.”

They’re not wrong. Harry hates surprise parties and Niall knows that, he definitely knows that. Maybe he thinks it’s just what he needs, strangers all gathered in one place yelling and jumping at him. Maybe Niall thinks that’ll make Harry clean up his socks.

“Anyway, I just came to warn you. It’s tomorrow at Niall’s place.”

Harry nods and keeps his eyes on Louis, raising his eyebrows, because surely that’s not all he’s here for.

“Oh right,” Louis grins. “And I came to wish you a happy birthday.” He takes a step forward, goes to take another one but changes his mind and stays where he is, spreading his arms wide. “Happy birthday Harry, I wish you’d shower for the party because I’m not hugging you right now.”

Harry bares his teeth with a wide smile, his cheeks aching with it. He hopes it translates the sentiment.

“I can smell you from here,” Louis deadpans.

Frowning, Harry lifts his arm and – Yeah, okay, he gets the point.

“So who’s, um, who’s coming? Tomorrow?”

Louis gives him that look again, pitiful and apologetic. “Just your friends, people close to you and all that.”

“Okay.” Harry nods to himself, looking at the floor. He can do that, he can do his closest friends.

“Um, I’m gonna go now,” Louis aims his thumb towards the door before he’s walking again. Harry’s already thinking about burrowing back into his bed for the day, as Louis suddenly stops, hand on the door. He smiles at Harry, asks, “Was I the first?”

Harry frowns at him.

“Was I the first to wish you a happy birthday?”

Harry looks at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s almost noon. His phone might’ve rang, he probably has a few messages, a photo of a cake from a co-worker waiting for him to reply to maybe. _Thank you, means so much._ Anne probably called by now. But Harry knows who didn’t call, whose message he doesn’t have, who didn’t wake him up at four in the morning to watch the sky, play with the sun and make the world spin the wrong way round.

“Right.” Louis hangs his head. “It doesn’t matter, sorry. See you tomorrow.”

The door clicks shut and Harry has his silence back. The sun is peering through one of the curtains, a stray ray looking at him, judging him, asking him where he was this morning. Harry walks to the window, has his hand on the curtain to pull it open, let in the sun and some fresh air.

There will probably be six people at his party, six people too many jumping up in a surprise Louis and Liam think he couldn’t even handle, something so simple giving him a heart attack without a preemptive warning. Maybe he should call Niall, thank him for the thought and quickly reschedule, say he isn’t feeling well because he isn’t and they all know it.

Harry groans again, pulls on the curtain to shut off the sun and falls back on the bed.

He doesn’t check his messages, doesn’t see who called him. It can wait until he wakes up later, for when his head isn’t throbbing and his hands aren’t tingling with an upcoming storm. Maybe he won’t be as disappointed to find who didn’t call, who didn’t send even a simple, _Happy bday H_.

////

Last year, it was a Thursday. His alarm started ringing, the phone jumping around on his nightstand, screaming at him to wake up, to get out of bed, that it was time and he was missing it. Harry pretended like he didn’t know why he set the alarm to four in the morning, that he must’ve typed in the time wrong, because he didn’t have to wake up until eight for his shift. Harry wanted to pretend he was just going to turn it off and turn around, burry his head underneath the pillow and fall back asleep like nothing had happened, like he didn’t know what was going on. But he checked the night before, lying in bed with his phone hanging over his face, the light harsh on his eyes, and there wasn’t a time already programmed into his calendar, nothing to make his phone yell at him, nothing to wake him up. So he set it, because that’s who he was last year, who he became over time. A person who sets an alarm for a day he doesn’t want to be awake for in the first place.

Harry wanted to pretend, but he’d only be lying to himself.

The plan was to not have a plan, to do nothing, to force himself to forget and not think about it and see it as any other unremarkable day of the year. But he’s Harry and it’s January, third week of the year, right in the middle of the month, twelve days after New Year’s. To make himself forget, Harry cleaned his kitchen. He reorganized his cupboards, moving the glasses from above the sink to above the stove, the spices on the counter over to the top drawer, and then everything back to its place, because he had a system and an order and he couldn’t just change that for the hell of it. His kitchen didn’t work like that.

As the day was breaking, he scrubbed the counter, scrubbed the fridge, scrubbed the floor until his knuckles cracked open and his fingers ached. He kneeled on the floor and concentrated on the lemon scent of the cleaning solution drifting through his apartment, fogging up his closed windows. As he scrubbed himself into a corner, Harry remembered that the lemon scent makes him sick, too reminiscent of hospitals and toilet bowls, so he scrubbed the floor with vinegar. Twice.

Putting the pans back in his spotless oven was when Harry decided to bake something, something sweet and simple to keep himself busy, to get himself going, to keep forgetting. He placed the pan on the counter, because baking always made him feel better. Or it’s what everyone likes to think, _baking makes you feel better_ , like a good night’s sleep cures the bags underneath your eyes, a sunny day means a good day. As if rain brings melancholy – Harry knows it’s the other way around. But the pan was on the counter and then so were the eggs, the flour, the milk, the chocolate, and before Harry knew it, he was cracking eggs against the bowl and weighting butter, stirring and stirring until he thought the rubber spatula would break clean in his hand.

Before he knew it, Harry was sitting on the clean kitchen tiles with the bowl in his lap, eating the chocolate chips right out of the bag and dropping the stray few into the bowl of raw batter. He wasn’t sure what he was making, just something simple with what he had in the fridge and the cupboards, maybe pancakes or a cake, just something to keep him on his feet and away from the bed. Therapeutic baking. He didn’t think about it until he was supposed to pour the  batter into the pan, the silicone half spheres looking back at him, all twelve of them messily covered in batter, ready to slide right into the oven.

His own mind was betraying him, making him think about it, letting him know he wasn’t making cupcakes to feel better, to forget or to get his mind off of anything. Harry was making cupcakes because he always made cupcakes on this day, twelve days after New Year’s. Always cupcakes, always chocolate chip.

He sat there on the floor, like he did the year later too, except slightly more drunk and even less aware of what he was doing. He burned the first batch and threw the second against the wall. His hands covered in sticky batter, Harry kept grabbing for more and more and more, nails scrapping against the metal bowl until it was all gone and he could finally close his eyes and be done with it all. _No more chocolate cupcakes_.

He let his head drop back, banging against the drawers and dropping the bowl on his spotless kitchen floor. He made a mess for no reason, because he had no reason, he’s never had a reason for feeling the way the does. Running his sticky fingers underneath his eyes, Harry made a promise to himself. Less than a month ago, he promised, _no more. This is it. No more stepping on flowers_.

////

Harry has a good memory for weather. He usually thinks of a day and either the sun or the clouds, maybe a big fat drop of rain come dancing in front of his eyes, just like that, like he’s standing in the middle of the street on a particular day, feeling the wind between his fingers. Usually, Harry’s good at keeping himself busy, either with work or a new recipe or grabbing lunch with Gemma in town, trying out a new restaurant.

It’s been different ever since she met Kevin, her one and only, her meant to be, her forever and always. She can’t disappear anymore. She can’t blend into her surroundings. She’s there and she has been. She called Harry first, just to tell him about Kevin, how he can read thoughts and how happy they are together, because that’s what it’s all about. She set up a date for all of them to get together with Anne too, so that they could meet Kevin and love him as much as she does. Then she came over a week after, cleaned Harry place up and told him off for the stuffy air and the thick curtains keeping the sun out.

That night, they sat on the kitchen floor together, no batter anywhere to be seen, both a little drunk and nostalgic, angry and sorry for how they grew up, for what Des did to them, to Anne. It was good, cathartic. Harry got to be angry without anyone questioning his motifs.

“I forgive him,” Gemma said with a big breath or air that Harry felt in his toes.

“You do?”

“He did what he had to do. No one could’ve stopped him.” Her head was pressed against Harry’s shoulder, the bottle close to her lips. Before she went on, Harry took a swig from his own. “I mean… we would’ve done the same, wouldn’t we?”

Harry looked down at her. They had the same eyes, him and her, clearly not Anne’s. Clearly belonging to a stranger who Harry hasn’t seen in years. But they both have Anne’s dimples, her bright smile. “I guess.” They clearly have Des’s mind, the little thought wormed deep in there that told them nothing is as important as forever, that nothing else measures up. _You settle for forever, nothing less._ That’s all Des too. “Yeah.”

“And now I don’t have to.”

“Because you’re lucky.”

“You’re next, you’ll see.”

Harry hoped she was right, but he knew she wasn’t. Some people meet their soulmates and others don’t, and as he had to scrub cupcake batter off the walls less than a month before, he figured he won’t. And that’s okay, he’s okay. He doesn’t have a meant to be to wait for.

////

“They told you,” Niall says as he throws open the door, his anger seeping into Harry’s bones.

“They did. You know I hate surprise parties.” Harry shrugs unapologetically and walks past Niall to hug Barbara, listen to all her wishes and hopes for him instead of Niall’s rant about stinking friends and making exceptions. “What if you just wish me a happy birthday and we can all move on?”

“Yeah, whatever, happy birthday and don’t think this is over.” Niall points a finger at him, as if Harry’s the one to blame here, but then he grins and throws himself into Harry’s arms with a bone-crushing hug.

It’s just him and Barbara and Niall, because out of the four people coming, Harry’s the only one that’s punctual. They sit him on the couch and give him a glass of wine that they have to refill in the next minute, because Niall asks him how he’s been, if he’s been on any dates lately before Harry can even say a word.

“Met anyone new?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Leave him alone.”

“What?” Niall looks at Barbara half confused and half sorry. Clearly their relationship is doing okay. They’re sticking with it, being together against odds even if they both have someone out there that’s their other half. Harry’s beginning to change his mind – he thinks it’s actually romantic. Or he could learn to think that. “I’m just asking him a question.”

“You’re being rude.”

“He ruined my party.”

“Technically, Louis did that,” Harry points out. He can’t help but grab onto any form of distraction.

And as Niall nods at him, apparently agreeing that Harry is an innocent bystander, Harry thinks they’re moving on. Until Niall asks again, “Met anyone new?” so Harry has to answer this time. But it’s not like he has much to say.

“Um, no, not really.” He’s looking down at the glass, at his hands, his knees, anything but Niall’s or Barbara’s faces. Now one of them just needs to say his name with that tone and his non-surprise birthday party will be perfect. It’ll be no different than any other time they all get together these days.

“Great, because I have this friend,” Niall starts, waves his glass around as he grins at Harry and sends over some of his excitement. It makes Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably, his leg jump up and down. “He’s a friend of a friend actually, but he’d be great for you, we all think so.”

Harry looks up at that. “You all? Who are _you all_?”

“Just me,” Barbara says quickly. “Just me and Niall.” It’s almost like she’s the only one who knows how Harry is feeling these days, what he’s thinking. “Jared’s really nice.”

_Jared. He’s really nice, he’s handsome, he can walk through walls and he’s just your type. You never know, Harry, Jared might be the one._

“I’ll think about it,” Harry says and they both smile at him, genuinely and warm. Harry would go as far as to say they looked proud.

That was when the doorbell rang and the ‘close friends’ became almost more people than Niall’s apartment could hold. First it was Louis and Liam who came with a nicely wrapped set of candles and instructions to only light them with an open window. Harry scowled and Louis scowled right back. Then it was Sasha and her two friends, Tom and Stacey, a leggy blonde that reminded Harry of those times spent in Niall’s basement, their noses in magazines, admiring either tattoos or pubic hair.

After them, people just kept showing up, some co-workers, some people Harry remembers from high school, from college. Even Lucas showed up, though he didn’t wish Harry a happy birthday. He’s probably still pressed about not getting that promised call back.

Harry drinks a glass of wine and a shot of vodka for every new person that knocks on the door or rings the doorbell. He feels like a well-trained dog – a bell and shot, a knock and down goes the chardonnay. He isn’t even paying attention to who’s coming through the door anymore, losing interest with the first face he didn’t recognize immediately. It’s more fun to stand by the empty velvet loveseat, looking down at it and wondering if he should sprawl over both seats, just to show everybody how he doesn’t need a Jared in his life, thank you very much.

Louis is telling him about an account he’s been working on for weeks, these clients who are tormenting him and his design team over a simple add campaign that he should’ve had a home run with. Louis’ afraid he’s losing his touch, that he isn’t as good as he thought he was, which only attests to how drunk he is, because in Louis eyes, Louis is the best add agent there is.

The people around them start shaking their heads, reassuring Louis that it’s just the clients being stupid and not recognizing his genius – it sounds like Louis’ putting words into their mouths. Harry’s shaking and nodding his head as well, wishing Gemma could be here. She has an early day tomorrow, but she promised they were gonna do something next weekend. It’s been a while since Harry’s trusted her promises, but he is now, now that she has Kevin.

The doorbell rings again at half past eleven. Harry looks around and doesn’t think anyone is missing, didn’t think anyone else would show up, so he looks up as Niall goes to open the door and as soon as he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

“Louis…” The people standing around them have dispersed, so he can’t hide behind a body like he wants.

“He’s your closest friend,” Louis says, looking straight at him, not giving Harry any less reason to hate him.

“No, he’s not.”

“Ethan isn’t, but Zayn is.”

“No,” Harry grits through his teeth. “He isn’t.”

“It’s not like you can throw his out, so you better behave,” Louis starts saying, like this isn’t Harry’s birthday party, and he’s pretty sure he should be allowed to behave however he wants on his birthday, even if that was yesterday. But Harry doesn’t have a chance to tell all of that to Louis, because the lights are being turned off and Barbara’s walking out of the kitchen with a cake, candles already melting onto the frosting and all Harry can think of is making his wish.

He blows out the candles and everyone signs to him. Someone hands him a shot glass instead of a slice of the cake and Harry toasts to himself and drinks it. And then instead of taking a plate, he grabs the bottle of vodka and pours himself another shot. He toasts to himself again.

Harry gets an idea when he downs the fifth consecutive shot, because it is his birthday and he is able to do whatever he wants to and what he wants is to make a toast, loud and clear, so everyone can watch him and hear him and know how happy he is.

“Everyone,” he starts, pulling out a chair and planting one foot on the seat. He takes a deep breath and swings the other foot up, waits a second to see if he’s going to fall, but he’s steady, he’s okay, he’s doing this. “Everyone!”

They cheer for him, clap and whistle – Harry can see the whole room from up here. Louis is sitting next to Liam in the love seat, Barbara and Niall still at the cake, handing out plates and forks. Sasha is the center of attention at the far left, five people standing around her and eating up her words. She stops talking to look at Harry though, smiles wide and sends him a thumbs up. Harry waves at her and smiles back.

“I’d like to thank Niall, first of all, for putting this shindig together for me, but you know how much I love you already, you’re great.” Harry raises his shot glass, half empty, and looks over at Niall. He’s smiling at him, but he’s frowning as well, as if he’s confused about something. Maybe they’ve run out of forks, Harry thinks to himself as everybody cheers when he drinks the rest of his shot. “But I’d like to thank all of you for coming as well.” The cheers die down as they settle to hear the rest of Harry speech. He takes another look around the room, smiles down at everybody his eyes can find until his sight flies over the people leaning against the back wall. Next to a couple of people he doesn’t recognize, standing there with smiles on their faces and their arms wrapped around each other are Ethan and Zayn. They look happy, cozy, like the perfect couple everyone sees them as. They look good together, even Harry can see that. They fit. Maybe that’s what you look like standing next to your soulmate, Harry thinks. _Like you fit_.

He shakes his head, wishes he had anything left in his glass and says, “Even the people I never wanted to see again, thank you for coming as well and making this night a special one, because it would be rude of me to throw you out, or so I’ve been told. Thank you for coming, but after this, really, I mean it when I say I never want to see you again.” His eyes wander to the wall again, flying over Zayn’s as he finishes with, “Or your other half.”

////

Harry looks up at the sound of the door opening and he wishes he didn’t again. This keeps happening, twice in one night already and he can’t figure out what he did to deserve it. He hangs his head and waits for the door to close, so he can continue sitting outside by himself. He hasn’t felt the sky in his chest for days, weeks or months probably. A year and a half if Harry isn’t lying to himself. It vibrates, the clouds drifting over the sky and caressing his face like fingers running over his cheeks, his eyelids, behind his ear. He’s leaning his head into the touch, closes his eyes, feels like humming with it.

“I just, um,…” Zayn’s standing with his back against the closed door, mumbling the words under his breath, because he knows he shouldn’t be here. Someone must’ve told him that Harry doesn’t want to see anyone. Louis probably told him not to come out here or he should’ve. Harry thought he was being lear. “I just came to say goodbye.”

Harry looks up at him, tries his best to keep his face straight when he says, “Goodbye,” and goes back to looking at the sky, feeling it thrum though his fingers.

But Zayn doesn’t get the idea, doesn’t get that Harry really does not want to see him right now or any other time, because he walks the two steps to get to the railing, leaning his elbows against it. “Might if I smoke a cigarette?”

Harry doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t say, “Yeah, go ahead,” or “I thought you were leaving,” because he doesn’t care. Zayn can do whatever he wants.

“Ethan’s trying to get me to quit.”

Harry snorts. “Good for Ethan.”

Shaking his head, Zayn pulls the pack out of his back pocket, sliding a cigarette between his lips before he inhales deeply. The end of it lights up, orange and bright, just a hint of fire burning around the embers. It’s still the best trick Harry’s ever seen.

“He’s a good guy, you know,” Zayn says around a cloud of smoke, looking at Harry over his shoulder.

He looks good. His hair is back to the way Harry likes it best – shaved sides with the top falling over his eyes a bit, as if Zayn didn’t try to get it to look like that before he left his home – his and Ethan’s home. Harry’s glad the buzzcut didn’t stick too long, because the _Instagram_ photos Harry keeps searching for make him look too young, too rough, like Zayn was up to no good. He always wondered what the librarians had to say about his hair or his tattoos or the little nose stud that just appeared one day, like the green highlights usually do.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like him,” he looks at Zayn from the corner of his eyes, but they both know he doesn’t mean it. Or they know he does, but it doesn’t matter what Harry thinks. It’s almost like it never matters what he thinks.

“You really didn’t know we were coming?”

“What do you think?”

“We were invited.” Zayn’s looking at the moon, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. He probably has more tattoos now. Harry hopes he kept the wings on his chest. They were always so enraptured by flying – the wings and the swallows. They always wanted to fly. “We brought you a gift.”

“Oh wow, that makes all the difference, thank you.”

“Why are you being such a shithead?”

“Why do you think?” Harry spread his arms wide, angles his palms upwards and feels how the sky gets ready, waits for his order even after all this time. He relaxes his hands, brings them back to his chest. He’s not in the mood to play.

“I honestly don’t know. We were friends and then we weren’t.” Zayn’s shaking his head again. It’s good to know some things stay the same. “I’d like to say I don’t know how that happened either, but the hundred unanswered calls kind of speak for themselves, right?”

“Then let’s just leave it at that.” Harry can’t feel his words in his toes, they don’t tingle, not like a storm does, like it used to feel fighting with Zayn. “You called and I didn’t answer, and we’re not friends anymore.”

Zayn looks at him, raises an eyebrow as if he’s waiting for more, but it’s all Harry’s going to give him. He doesn’t have anything more to give. And Zayn must know that, because the fire in his eyes extinguishes until there’s only a single flame in each eye, barely blue this time.

He flicks the cigarette over the balcony and Harry’s getting ready to not see him again for at least a few months, maybe he can go until summer, avoiding everything else their friends have planned for them. He wonders how they’ll decide to invite them to birthday parties, who’s going to go where. When Zayn turns around, Harry gives him a look that’s meant to say goodbye, something soft and kind, because it’s not Zayn he hates, not really. But Zayn gives him a look in return, a _don’t be stupid_ as he walks over and sits next to Harry on the floor, his back against the wall, his shoulder next to Harry’s.

When the sun dips behind the horizon and the moon lights up, just a bright crescent in the midst of the twinkling lights all laid across the darkness of the sky, Harry’s breath comes easier. There’s les to feel, less that vibrates through his chest, nothing that fills him with warmth and red and light and the tightness the day brings. He looks up and the clouds hanging there dance over his skin, but he doesn’t feel the stars. They just sit there and look down at him, they don’t ask questions or ask him if he wants to play.

Zayn exhales next to him, leans his head against the wall and sends heat to his skin. It radiates from him, touching Harry lightly, questioning, _do you want some?_ A shiver runs down his spine, because he hasn’t felt that heat  in years, has forgotten what it feels like to be warmed by someone else. Harry’s never needed that warmth, even if he did crawl towards it on his knees, scraping the skin on his palms just to get close to it, but he had a heat of his own. A summer breeze tied around the tip of his finger, following him around, sewn into the lining of his coat. He hasn’t felt that in years either.

With his eyes on the moon, Harry presses his palm against his knee, his fingers twitching, his chest expanding. He can see his breath in the air as he exhales and raises his arm, pulling the sun up, calling it back, spinning the world around its axis, turning hours into seconds.

The sky tinges in a light blue, and then pink before the first rays peek out over the trees. He holds the sun there, still low enough to keep it hidden – right there at the precipice of night and day, on the edge of the world.

With the sun in his hand, Harry turns his head to face Zayn, to look at the fire in his eyes as he asks, “Are you happy?” because that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

“I… Yeah, I am,” Zayn says without taking his eyes away from the sun.

Harry keeps the sun there for another second before he lowers his arms back into his lap, letting the world turn back around, spin at its own pace. “That’s… that’s good,” he murmurs, his chest deflating, the heat around his skin slipping away.

Zayn nods, but he doesn’t look at Harry. Maybe he can’t. “He really is a good guy, you know?”

“Did you feel it?” Harry’s asking at the stars, with his knees held close to his chest, because for the longest time, he’s had nothing else to hold. “Did it shift?”

“He looks over at Zayn again, at the sharp and the soft of his face, the sleek line of his jaw. Zayn takes another cigarette out of the pack, bounces the end on his knee three times, _tap tap tap_ , and puts it between his lips.

Harry can’t do anything too fancy with the weather if he doesn’t want to change seasons, snow in July or summer in the middle of winter that’ll throw everything off, the bees sleepy and lost trying to find the flowers that hadn’t had time to bloom. Harry can conjure up winds with a flick of his wrist, send a cold tentative shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing to the way smoke swirls past Zayn’s lips with a simple inhale.

“I think so, yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Ethan said he–”

“No, with you.” Because he knows the earth shook and almost split open for Ethan, as if he’s something special. “What happened with _you_?”

Zayn exhales a cloud of smoke. Shaking his head he says, “I don’t think it’s that easy. I think,” he takes another drag, “It can be this grand thing like with Louis or it might be subtle. I think some people don’t even notice it.” With a shrug and his eyes tentatively moving on Harry, he lets the words settle around them.

“But did you feel it?”

Zayn keeps his eyes on Harry’s, steady and unwavering, as if he’s waiting for another question or something else, something Harry doesn’t understand. He blinks slowly and turns his eyes on the sky, shakes his head and exhales a cloud of smoke. All he gives him is a quiet hum.

“So what happened with Ethan?” Harry knows this story, he’s heard it before, but Zayn won’t give him anything else.

“He thinks it’s gotten stronger.”

“He thinks?”

Zayn chuckles. “He can’t really test it without, you know, causing an earthquake.”

“I’m sorry, but that power is just so…”

“Useless?” Zayn grins at him. “Absolutely.”

Harry’s forgotten how it used to be, the feeling of just sitting with Zayn like this, having him close enough to touch, looking directly at his face without his skin crawling away, begging to run until he’s breathless and far away. But Harry thinks this is how it used to be, maybe this is what is felt like back then, when there were no strings, no Ethan.

And he doesn’t know how long this will last, when the door will open and Louis will ask if they’re okay and they won’t say anything because they don’t know, maybe they never will be okay. So Harry clears his throat, shifts his legs straight in front of him and asks, “What did you mean, last time, that I should’ve said something?” Harry hasn’t been kept awake at night because of that, it hasn’t become the center of his existence, turning it over in his head again and again. But he has caught himself remembering that night, the words Zayn said, while chopping leek or putting the dishes away. Just last week, he was deciding between orange juice or apple juice in the grocery store and his mind drifted to that, to what Zayn meant. But it’s nothing serious. It’s not important.

The heat pulls back and without looking, Harry knows the fire’s back in Zayn’s eyes, bright and hot.

Zayn takes a long pull of his cigarette and puts it out in the plant pot next to him, a withered bush not weathering the cold temperature of February. He jumps up to his feet and straightens his shirt. Harry gets ready again, because he knows this is it. Until summer.

“I meant exactly what I said,” Zayn says looking the floor, coughing into his fist right before he brings his eyes up to Harry. They look at each other, stuck in the moment, like the sun hanging between day and night.

“I’ll see you around,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t move, his boots planted on the tiles.

Harry nods his head, watching the flame in Zayn’s eyes flick upwards with a hint of blue. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t know where they would be today if Chris had never moved in and Ethan never came to help him move out, but Harry hopes they wouldn’t be here, on Niall’s balcony with more past than they have a future ahead of them. They could’ve stayed in the house together, Zayn wouldn’t have gone looking for a new place to get away from their student house because he would have a reason to stay, and Harry wouldn’t keep going on first dates without ever getting to a second or a third. Or maybe Zayn would’ve still moved out and Harry would forget to answer his calls and they would drift apart gradually, by accident, because life got in the way and Harry always wanted what he couldn’t have. He doesn’t know where they would’ve ended up, but he doubts it would be here, staring at each other on a cold February night with nothing to say.

Zayn lets them stay in the moment for a beat longer, but not long enough, because he’s shaking his head and murmuring, “Bye Harry,” leaving Harry to sit on the balcony floor in silence, just like he wanted.

But when he says, “Bye,” right as the door closes and the silence sets in, it’s the last thing Harry wants.

 

 

_June 2019_

The lights have yellow bulbs. Harry’s drowned in the bright glow as he leans closer to the mirror, fixing the lapels of his suit, pressing it flat against his chest. He should’ve steamed it, should’ve brought an iron or asked for one when there was still time and he couldn’t hear people  rushing up and down the hallway outside the tiny room he’s standing in awkwardly, just him, the mirror and the yellow lights.

Maybe if his suit was ironed he wouldn’t be focusing on the shadows falling over his face, the warm tinge making him look sickly, like he needs to eat something, drink a glass of water. Harry shouldn’t look sickly today – he should be radiant and happy and holding back tears, sniffling and discreetly wiping a tissue at his nose. He’s trying to not think about how he’s supposed to stand in front of fifty people, because if he does, he might just lock himself into this room and never come back, never mind cry. Five minutes ago, Harry was supposed to be ready and walking down the aisle, right past all of those people, rows of them on either side, with a smile and without tripping. He’s supposed to be happy, not nervous.

Someone knocks on the door just as he’s about to open the only window and throw himself through it, hurdle down the driveway until there’s a safe distance between him and whoever is knocking on the door. When someone knocks on the door, it means it’s time, that he’s wearing the wrinkled suit whether he wants to or not, because this is it, it’s happening, he has a wedding to get to.

Harry gives himself a quick second to glance at the mirror again, lifting his head and smiling at himself, saying the words quietly to under his breath, before he’s opening the door and walking down the hallway.

A woman he passes tucks a tulip in his breast pocket, someone’s cousin tells him to hurry up in a rushed and loud tone that Harry chooses not to interpret as yelling, but rather an energetic attitude. And Niall pinches his ass right before he’s about to step outside of the house and walk down the looming aisle, last one in the row, past what looks like more than a hundred people.

They’re all turned around, all of those countless eyes staring at Harry as he walks down the aisle slow step after slow step. He knows he’s imagining it, but it feels like they’re all waiting for him to fall. So he focuses on the tulips lining the walkway instead, the crisp white blossoms woven together along the foldable white chairs all down to the end, the narrow leaves pointing where to go. Instead of the eyes lingering on his face and back, the flowers in his pocket, Harry thinks about the napkin swans he helped to fold, the white fondant tulips he strategically placed on the top and sides of the three tier lemon layer cake with vanilla bean frosting he made last night.

When he’s the only one walking, he looks up from the floor and the only person that’s there, still looking at him is Zayn. It’s hard to focus on the napkins or the flowers when all Harry sees is a bright fire and he’s walking right into it, drawn into it like it’s his life-light.

Harry reaches the end, steps to the side and turns around right as the music changes and Louis and Liam come to stand at the beginning of the aisle, hand in hand, both with tulips tucked into the breast pockets of their matching tuxedos, smiling at each other with matching grins.

The moment they take their first step, Harry wells up.           

////

The best men make their speeches. Andy, Liam’s best friend from primary school, keeps it short and funny, throwing in a couple of jokes about the new couple that make everyone laugh, even Louis. It takes him ten minutes to get through his wishes and hopes, promising Louis he won’t regret this decision and pointedly not doing the same to Liam – everyone laughs at that as well.

And then it’s Zayn’s turn – Louis’ best man, his best friend since even before primary school – to stand on the makeshift stage in front of the mic with his speech handwritten on blue notecards that he’s probably memorized word for word last night, pacing up and down his living room like he used to do before exams, jamming information into his brain. Harry remembers sitting cross legged on the bed to watch him pace, how Zayn mumbled the words under his breath like saying them out loud would make them stick faster. Zayn gets nervous at first, even with the words right there, stumbling over the first few sentences before he sees the crowd responding, hearing the small chuckles coming from different tables. He pulls at his crisp black suit, tugging at the sleeve as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Zayn doesn’t make any jokes, Harry didn’t think he would. He keeps it shorter than Andy, but he makes a bigger impact and it’s not just Harry who thinks so. It’s the story of how Louis was pining after Liam and how it felt different even to Zayn when he first heard Louis say Liam’s name, like it was a sign of _something more_. He says, ‘Louis knew before he knew’ and that does it. As if he’s admitting to a secret, he says he knew they loved each other the first time he saw them together, and to his credit, there are only four people who know he’s left some details out, but none of them hold it against him. The truth wouldn’t make Liam’s mom cry the way she does.

As Harry watches the satisfied grin on Zayn’s face, he feels his heart tug at something in his chest, twisting tightly around the fact he hasn’t seen him in months, which is just what Harry knew would happen. But now that it is and Zayn’s standing there in front of everyone, Harry has a chance to look at him as much as he wants, because everyone else is too.

He follows the line of Zayn’s eyes and only barely gives Ethan a second of his attention before his own are back on Zayn’s. He can’t see his eyes, if they’re blazing or just kindling, hot red or a bright blue because of the emotion that must be running through him. Next to Harry, Niall can’t seem to decide between sniffling back tears or jumping up from joy. But Zayn holds it together, standing on that stage as if he isn’t crawling out of his skin with nerves, as if he can’t feel Harry’s eyes burning holes into his suit.

And maybe he doesn’t, because after another second, Harry moves his eyes around the white tent and without feeling as if he’s missing something, he focuses on Louis and Liam, and not the fact Zayn’s buzzed all his hair off again.

After the speeches, after Liam thanks everyone for coming and Louis hangs off his shoulder, unable to let go of his husband, they have their first dance. And that’s when Harry really cries.

He keeps tapping a tissue under his eyes as Ray Charles croons _Come Rain or Come Shine_ , because Liam’s holding Louis as close as he can, their foreheads are pressed together and they keep stealing kisses, never enough, just one more, counting them to infinity. It’s not just that they’re soulmates, it’s that they look like they are, Harry can feel it in his own bones.

Louis whispers something close to Liam’s ear and Harry melts even if he can’t hear it, because he imagines it’s something simple like _I love you_ that makes Liam close his eyes like that – like this, swaying around the dance floor with Louis in his arms is as good as it gets. And for Liam, for anybody that marries their one and only, Harry thinks it really is.

When others start to join the happy couple on the dance floor, Harry moves back from the front lines to his table, right where the _Styles H._ place card is, next to Niall’s and Barbara’s. But they go to dance as well, everyone does or at least the pairs to, the _We’s_ of the party that have a hand to hold. As he sits down, he wonders who will be Niall’s best man when he finally ties the knot with Barbara, if whoever he picks will tell the tale of two high schoolers going to prom together only to meet again after three years and fall madly in love against all odds. If it’s Harry, he’ll try to do their story justice. Maybe he’ll lie a little too.

Harry leans back in his chair, stretches his legs in front of him and observes the dance floor, because that’s the only other thing he can do besides drink wine at the bar, and he was politely asked to not do that tonight. So he sits with his glass of water in hand and watches how Niall and Barbara shimmy to _Dancing in the Moonlight_ , laughing at each other, kissing every time one of them almost falls over. There’s Liam dancing with his mum and Louis spinning his sisters, one per every song.

But Harry’s eyes keep glancing over to another couple, the one that keeps slow dancing even when the music goes from _Can’t Help Falling in Love_ to Michael Buble’s _Everything_ , which is clearly not song to slowly sway to. Harry can’t bring himself to blame them, he’d want to slow dance with Zayn every song as well.

Ethan and Zayn fit together, they do in that way where Zayn’s arms are around Ethan’s neck so he can be led by the careful hold on his waist. In the way they smile at each other, kiss like they’re sharing a secret. As if they can’t help each other, like they have to lean in every couple of seconds, like it’s their way of breathing. Zayn rests his head on Ethan’s shoulder when a slow song starts and they don’t stop dancing, one song bleeding into another and then a second and then a third.

Harry keeps drinking the water, pretending it’s wine.

////

At first, Harry didn’t believe Zayn when he said he was happy, that he loved Ethan, that they were _it_ for each other. At first, right after his birthday, when Harry woke up in his bed without a headache or cotton in his mouth one morning, he thought if Zayn would tell him again, if he repeated the words, _yeah, I am happy_ , when Harry was clear headed and sober, that it would do the trick.

Because sitting on the balcony alone for five more minutes until Niall came looking for him, asking if he was okay, Harry had the time to realize two very important things he must’ve missed along the way. It was there, right in front of him, but for the longest time Harry didn’t know he wanted Zayn to be happy. He almost convinced himself he wanted Zayn to be miserable, to keep Harry company in his own, as if that would’ve made him feel any better.

He wanted Zayn to be happy with Ethan, because even if they weren’t friends, the remnants of whatever those unanswered calls made them, Harry couldn’t want anything else for Zayn. And the other thing that struck Harry out of the clear night sky was that he wanted to be happy too, for Zayn and for himself, whatever that meant. In whatever way.

So when Niall asked if he’s okay, Harry didn’t shrug like he used to, leaving it to interpretation, leaving it blank. He said, “Yeah, I think I am,” and took Niall’s hand, got up and left his birthday early, because he really did hate surprise parties, even if they weren’t that big of a surprise.

It took Harry two months to gather up the courage for the first step of his plan. Two months of picking up the phone and biting his lips and knuckles, to call Louis for a small favor of giving him Zayn’s phone number. And then a month after that for Louis to do it, because he seemed incapable of doing much else than calling Harry ‘stupid.’

“No, absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Harry whined, throwing himself on his bed. He still felt proud about making it every morning for a week straight, the blanket neatly folded at the end. He’d get to actually opening his windows in no time. “I just want to ask him something.”

“Not if you don’t tell me what you’re asking first.”

Harry frowned at the ceiling. “That’s private.”

“Zayn is my best friend, nothing is private between us.”

Harry had two options. He could’ve thrown his phone against the wall and find another way to contact Zayn or he could just tell Louis. But even if Louis thought there weren’t any secrets between him and Zayn, Harry was pretty sure that their past stayed in the bedroom they shared without anyone knowing, and giving Louis just a small piece of it could be catastrophic. If Zayn really hadn’t told him, if even after all this time he was still keeping that little piece to himself, locked inside his old bedroom, then Harry really only had one option. He would have to tell the truth.

So Harry said, “I want to ask him if he’s happy,” because he knew the truth didn’t matter right now.

“You want to what?”

“I just – give me the number, Lou,” Harry sighed into the phone.

“You’re weird, you know that?”

It took Harry a few weeks after that to actually make the call.

He decided that one particular Friday afternoon, he was just going to dial the new number he saved under _Z_ in his phone, because it was easier like that, not having to look at the full name if he scrolled to the end of his contacts, and ask. That was it, that was Harry’s plan.

Staying true to his resolve, Harry first sat on his dining room table as he stared at his phone, locked, the screen black, his reflections staring back at him as he waited. For what, Harry wasn’t sure. He moved over to the bed, sat in the middle of it to get comfortable and stared at his phone again. It was like his fingers wouldn’t move once he was supposed to actually press call. As if his joints locked up, like they knew something he didn’t.

There was no one else to blame but himself, but Harry didn’t blame himself for walking over to the fridge to grab the bottle of vodka and a glass, setting both down on the floor right next to his bed. It seemed like every time Harry thought about Zayn, he had to slip down to the cold tiles, be as low as he could get in case his head started spinning and he’d suddenly fall. It’s like his body was telling him to get on the floor before something else makes him.

He held the glass in one hand and kept his eyes on the phone placed perpendicularly to his knees, waiting for something to happen. Maybe it would ring, maybe it could call all by itself or maybe Harry hoped Zayn could sense something and he’d be the one calling, checking to see if he was okay. Whatever it was, Harry kept pouring himself more vodka until the phone started moving on the floor, his head rolling around on his neck, his eyes drooping closed.

That was the moment he couldn’t wait any longer, because time was running out, and it wasn’t Friday afternoon any longer. The sun had gone down sometime between his second glass and the evening news playing on the TV in the corner. Harry kept his eyes on the big screen as he clicked the phone to unlock, mindlessly scrolling his thumb until he reached the last contact and pressed on the icon, thinking _whatever happens, happens_.

A movie was on now, but Harry didn’t recognize the actors, didn’t know what was happening or how much of it he’s missed by staring at the bottom of his glass. He pressed the phone close to his ear and drained the last of his drink, leaning his head against the edge of his bed as he listened to the rings.

It took a while – long enough for Harry to forget what he was doing in the first place, for Zayn to pick up with a muffled, “Hello?”

“Yeah?” he slurred, startled. He shook his head, trying to remember what he was doing.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’m sorry. It’s Harry.”

There was an audible pause, the sound of Zayn breathing flooding Harry’s mind, before he asked “Harry?” quietly, like he was afraid to say it any other way except in a whisper.

“Yeah.” The plan, Harry tried to remember his plan. “Um, I have a question for you.”

“At two in the morning?”

The evening news were on a while ago then. “I guess.”

“Are you okay?”

Harry smiled. He wondered if Zayn sleeps on the left or the right side of the bed now. Maybe he always wanted to sleep on the left, but couldn’t because of Harry, maybe he can finally sleep on the side he wanted to. Ethan probably didn’t make him switch sides.  “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Harry,” Zayn whispered quickly. “It’s two in the morning, what are you doing?”

“I’m asking you a question,” Harry said, shaking his head, because it wasn’t like Zayn to not listen. He used to pay attention, but that could’ve changed in all those years. Zayn could be brazenly aloof now with an attention span more like Harry’s.

“Then ask it.”

“Did I wake you?”

There was a rustle of sheets before Zayn said, “Yeah,” his whisper replaced by a soft rasp. He was asleep.

“Okay, then I’ll be quick.”

Zayn hummed, but didn’t say anything else. Harry wanted him to say something else. He didn’t know what to do then, but to ask, “Are you happy?” like he would’ve anything else, anyone else.

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

“You woke me up –” Zayn trailed off and Harry pictured him running his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like he always did at Harry.

“Are you shaking your head?”

“Yes.” But after a second, Zayn sighed out a, “No,” and Harry knew he was smoking, but he didn’t know which question Zayn was answering. Not until Zayn said, “I feel like all I do is shake my head at you.”

“You always did that.” Harry leaned his head against the bed, looking out the window at the stars. He promised himself to open it tomorrow, bring in some fresh air. “Good to know I still make you do that.” Giving Zayn the time to blow out the smoke he could hear him inhaling, Harry asked, “So is that your final answer?” because he needed it in black ink, written on the sky, spelled out in stardust and moon shine.

Zayn chuckled. “Leave it to you to call me at two in the morning to ask if I’m happy. You haven’t changed much, have you?”

“I don’t remember ever doing this before.”

“It’s very Harry of you though,” Zayn said. Harry could hear his smile.

“Well.” He pulled himself up so he could lie on his bed, his neck starting to ache from the awkward angle. “I guess some things never change.”

“I guess they don’t.”

Harry closed his eyes. He listened to Zayn breathe miles away from him, somewhere in Providence, in an apartment Harry’s never been to, on a street Harry doesn’t know. The sound made Harry think of a fire – flickering upwards with each inhale, simmering every time his chest falls, as if they’re alive together, breathing as one.

He got what he wanted. Harry called and he asked and now he knew the answer, now it’s out there in the universe, even if he’s the only one who heard. Wondering if Zayn shakes his head at anyone else like he does Harry, he sighed and fell asleep to the sound of a flickering flame.

////

The bartender is cute. He’s slightly older, has those mature wrinkles around his eyes and he smiles at Harry when he orders a glass of white wine with a whisper, looking around to see if anyone’s watching.

“Who are you hiding from?”

“Everybody,” Harry says with a laugh, taking the glass with a smile of his own.

“Who’s side are you from? The tall or the short husband?”

“Don’t let the short one hear you.” He takes a sip, almost moans at the taste. It’s not the best, nothing like what he serves in some restaurants, but it’ll do. “And both.”

“So you’ll be staying until the end?”

Harry hasn’t thought about it. And he didn’t plan on waiting around for someone either, but a cute bartender with a nice smile and a very attractive beard might do him some good. If he drinks some more wine, he could definitely be convinced to stay until the end.

“Maybe.” He smirks, and tries to not make it obvious, but he hasn’t done this in a long time. So long that as soon as the word is out of his mouth, Harry feels ridiculous. He’s probably being presumptuous. He doesn’t even know the cute bartender’s name.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Harry spins on his heel to find Louis standing behind him, hands on his hips, tapping his fancy shoe on the grass.

“I’m having a drink with…” He turns back to the bartender with another smile.

“Ben.”

“I thought we said no drinking tonight.”

Harry cringes. “It’s just a glass of wine.”

Louis takes the few steps separating them so he can say, “You know it’s never just a glass of wine,” close enough for Ben to hear.

Harry tries to save the situation, but he can see the smirk falling off of Ben’s face faster than Louis’ losing his patience. It’s a losing battle either way, so Harry kindly apologizes to Ben, drinks until the glass is empty and sticks his tongue out to Louis.

“That’s really mature of you.”

Harry’s trying to speed walk away from Louis, but the venue isn’t big enough to put any actual space between them. If he doesn’t get wine, he shouldn’t be compelled to listen to whatever Louis has to tell him.

“Just because you’re married now, it does not mean you can boss me around.”

“I can boss you around, because I’m me,” Louis shouts at his back.

“What you are is the shorter husband,” Harry shoots back.

Louis makes an affronted noise behind him, like he’s been kicked in the shin. “Will you stop running for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s just how regular size people walk.”

“Harry.” It’s the tone that does it, it’s always the tone that does it. Harry stops in his tracks, but chooses not to turn around. He doesn’t have to do everything Louis says. “I didn’t come to attack you.”

“Sounded like it.”

Louis groans. “I came to ask you to dance,” he grits through his teeth.

“Yeah, um, no thanks.” Harry crosses his arms and taps his shoe. He’s always liked the sight of that, very authoritative.

“Not with me, I have a husband to dance with.”

Harry turns around. “If you hadn’t cut in, I could’ve been dancing with Ben.”

“Who?” Louis frowns.

“The bartender.”

And then Louis smirks, which isn’t a good sign. It’s never a good sign. “Or,” he drawls, in typical Louis fashion. “You could dance with Zayn.”

Harry sputters. “Why would I– I don’t want to– Why would you– ?”

“Because he’s sitting alone at the table.” Louis points out a figure slumping in one of the chairs, playing with the folded swans. “Ethan had to leave, something about work or I don’t know. You should ask him to dance.”

“Why?” He crosses his arms again, but it isn’t to annoy Louis this time.

“Because you’re both incredibly stupid.” Louis gives him a look, his look, and Harry almost shivers. He’ll never understand why that look makes him so nervous. But with it, Louis turns and walks back to the dance floor, Liam waiting patiently for him at the side of everyone dancing. Even from this far, Harry can see how his eyes light up when he sees Louis.

This time, Harry doesn’t have the wine to blame. He could say it’s all Louis’ fault, but for the first time, Harry’s owning up to the decision of walking over to Zayn in small steps, forcing himself to take each one. When he comes to a stop right next to the table though, he doesn’t know what to say.

It’s Zayn that startles out a, “Hey.”

“I was sent here.” Not the best way to start. “Or,” Harry starts over. “Would you like to dance?”

He offers his hand when Zayn looks at him questioningly. It dawns on Harry that this could be the first time they’ll hold hands outside of Zayn’s bedroom. This could be the only time they hold hands in front of everybody.

Zayn looks up at him and groans, this deep guttural sound that makes Harry smile, because he knows what it means. He knows what Zayn’s thinking.

“Just one dance,” he says, because just once, just one time Harry wants to dance with Zayn.

“Fine, but no jokes.”

He frowns at him, wondering what that means as he says, “Promise,” easy as anything.

Zayn takes his hand and lets Harry lead them to the edge of the dance floor. They don’t know how to start. Harry doesn’t know if Zayn would let him lead, or if he’s expected to do it, he doesn’t know if he knows how, so they end up standing a step away from each other, looking lost and confused, until they both laugh and Zayn shakes his head.

“It’s different seeing you do it in person again,” Harry jokes as he goes to hold Zayn’s hand again, brings them closer together as he places his other hand on Zayn’s back.

Zayn chuckles, but he places his hand on Harry’s shoulder without shushing him or pretending as if he doesn’t know what Harry is talking about. He would swear there are still indents in his cheek from falling asleep on his phone last month. As they take their first sway together, Harry thinks about the call time he checked when he woke up, the numbers clearly saying Zayn stayed on the line for another hour and a half, listening to Harry sleep.

“Some things never change,” Zayn murmurs down at their feet.

Some things don’t, Harry thinks to himself, because just like they used to, studying crammed on Zayn’s bedroom floor together, living in a room too small for both of them for three years – they still fit. Harry hasn’t slow danced since that time Calvin had insisted they do at least half a song at prom, but he doesn’t step on Zayn’s toes and Zayn doesn’t step on his. And unlike their prom, Harry gets to dance with Zayn tonight. And for a full song at that.

They might not steal anything from each other, but when Harry says, “Knock, knock,” Zayn throws his head back with his eyes closed, and a snort escapes him. He looks around himself alarmed when he hears it, blushing with fire beneath his skin that Harry only barely catches before he’s pressing his face in Harry’s shoulder like he’s trying to hide.

Harry wonders if Zayn forgot that he used to make him laugh, that he loved seeing Zayn slip up like that, loose and easy, his shoulders below his jawline, his eyes blue. But maybe Zayn hasn’t, because he asks, “Why would you do that?” and Harry can tell he already knows.

There’s a sunset feeling in his chest when Zayn collects himself again, raises his head and tires to play cool, like nothing happened and nobody saw, not even Harry. The warmth of it expands his lungs and heats up his heart, brings anxious butterflies to his stomach.

He tightens his grip on Zayn’s hand, locks their fingers together as he brings his other hand to his waist, holding on to him tightly. Looking at how the flames flick higher in his eyes, Harry takes a step forward and tells Zayn to hold on, to trust him, to give him one song.

“Harry what are you–” Zayn starts, but before he can ask, Harry’s taking a step backwards with Zayn,  leading them both until their feet are walking on air, moves keeping in time with the music as their next step takes them higher, their feet not touching the ground.

Zayn looks down, sees they’ve lost contact, that they’re floating, feeling how his feet still land on something hard, something solid. Their feet dangling as Harry hold onto Zayn tighter, not letting him go.

“I’ve been practicing,” Harry says, like he said it every time he learned how to do something new, like he said it that time on the rooftop when they were still so young, no worry bigger than passing their exams. He says it like Zayn did when he learned how to set himself on fire, from toe to the top of his head, all fire, all Johnny Blaze, burning like he fed off the energy around him.

“I can see that,” Zayn whispers with a smile. He laughs, shakes his head and Harry realized he’ll never know what it means, but he doesn’t need to now. He doesn’t get to trace the lines of Zayn’s palm anymore and he’s okay with that. If a dance at their best friend’s wedding is all they get, then Harry will make them fly every time, because fliers are rare and Harry always wanted to be one, because he wanted to make Zayn fly.

“Can I try something?” Zayn’s looking up at him, no longer concentrating on how they get higher and higher with every step they take, as if they’re dancing on the stairway to the sky. No one’s even paying them any attention, too focused on their own feet. “Louis asked me if I could do this for him.” He’s smirking in that way that means he’s up to no good.

“Zayn…” Harry warns, but he closes his mouth as soon as the first spark flies into the air. There’s a second before another shoots into the air, falling down over the couples on the dance floor, like rain of golden flecks that Zayn conjures out of thin air.

Harry’s looking around them as they keep drifting up and up as sparks fly all around them, as if they’re fire themselves, embers flitting into the air from nowhere and everywhere. When he moves his eyes on Zayn’s instead, he can see they’re coming from him, his eyes alight with that blue flame, that turquoise fire that Harry hasn’t seen since they were standing in Niall’s bedroom and he was sure Zayn was going to set him on fire.

“You’ve been practicing too.” Harry can feel how he’s heating up, containing his fire in the tips of his fingers. So he keeps them in the air a little longer, just because Zayn doesn’t stop smiling up at the sky or right at Harry, and it’s been a long time since he’s seen that smile up close.

But it takes a lot out of him and Zayn must notice, because he’s tightening his hold on Harry’s hand. “Come on, move us over there.” He’s nodding his head at the balcony of the house and Harry can’t do anything else but do as Zayn wants. That hasn’t changed either.

“Louis asked you for a show, huh?” Harry says as soon as their feet touch the floor of the terrace.

“He asked for a spectacle.” Zayn’s eyes shine, still blue, as a stray spark shoots into the air.

They’re standing barely a breath apart, Harry holding onto Zayn even though they’re standing on steady ground now, no longer dangling in midair, because he can feel it, he can tell what he’s about to do, and he’s not about to let go of Zayn before he does.

Harry wants to give himself an out, a chance for Zayn walk away and forget he ever asked, “Can I kiss you?” while their friends were dancing right there, close enough to hear Louis laugh, just a few feet below them. Harry wonders if he’ll ever stop asking that. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers again, can feel his eyes overflowing with hope, the fire in Zayn’s eyes coming alive.

Harry gets ready to let go, when Zayn bites his lips, and without giving Harry an answer, leans in.

It’s like they have been kissing all this time, as if just last week Harry was wondering if Zayn will ever taste like fire, like it was burning through him. Like they’re lying on their bed, sitting on the roof with a blanket around their shoulders and their heads pressed together, sharing Zayn’s heat and kissing as if it was the only thing they know how to do.

And it’s like they’ve never done it before, like that day in the basement never happened and Harry got his wish, he gets to kiss Zayn for the first time all over again. He doesn’t have to compare his lips to the last time, if they’re just as soft, if Zayn sighed then as well, if it felt like fire, even if it didn’t taste like it. He feels a hand wrap around the back of his neck and Harry doesn’t care if he’s never kissed before right now, because this is the kiss that counts, the one that’s supposed to matter.

And Zayn might be thinking the same thing, as he runs the tip of his tongue over Harry’s lips, pressing himself closer, burning up – or he might not. But he’s saying, “Let’s go inside,” as he moves his mouth to Harry’s jaw and his neck, trying to untuck his shirt at the same time.

Harry nods starts walking them backwards, bumping into the glass doors and pushing them open, hoping there’s a bed on the other side. And there is. There’s a bed and gift wrapped presents all over the floor, tuxedo jackets draped over the armchair. Harry groans, because they couldn’t have worse luck, but that just makes Zayn bite at his neck, lick and bite again, like he wants to leave a bruise, but knows he shouldn’t.

There are too many things going through his mind all at once, all over, jumbled into one big cloud that’s about to crack open and spill its guts, so Harry flexes his fingers, splits it in half himself and whooshes it away, far away, until he’s falling onto the bed and dragging Zayn with him, pulling him on top of himself, begging him to leave marks, just one. Harry wants to remember this.

“Gets this off.” He’s pushing at the jacket still on Zayn’s shoulders, tugging it off by the sleeves and the lapels. He gets another thought he’s had before, something familiar lingering in the air as Zayn unlinks his belt and shucks his shirt over his head, dispersing anything that isn’t half naked right in front of Harry’s eyes.

“You too.” Zayn smirks down at him, but he doesn’t make a move to get off the bed and let him do it. He even braces his hands on the mattress as if to emphasize the fact he isn’t moving.

“I can’t.”

“Want some help?” Zayn asks slyly, as if he isn’t unbuttoning Harry’s shirt already, button after button, until he reaches his pants and undoes them as well. There’s a second he just looks at Harry’s chest, maybe at the birds, maybe the butterfly or the laurels, before he shakes his head and leans down, kisses right between them.

“Gonna let me take off my pants?”

Zayn licks a line up his chest, moving only an inch to the right to bite at Harry’s nipple. “That’s a bit presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” He looks up at Harry and bites his nipple again.

Harry wants to take his time. He wants to lay Zayn down on the bed, all bare skin and soft sighs, as he makes him beg for a simple touch, a simple kiss, wants to hear _please_ at least once before he even does anything. Harry wants to take it slow, first with lingering grazes at his sides, over his hips, right at the juncture of his thigh. Maybe he wants to outline the words tattooed on Zayn’s hip, the ones that used to match Harry’s until he couldn’t take looking down at them anymore. He told himself it was to close a chapter, to end the story and give it peace, but Harry knows he didn’t want to be reminded of everything he’s lost by something etched on his skin, that it wasn’t just the ending he didn’t want to carry around on his hip. But Zayn still has his and from all the new lines on his arms and shoulder, the smoke and skull on his chest right above his wings, the words fit nicely, just as a part of the story and not the center of it like a bold black plotline.

More than anything, Harry wants to get his mouth on Zayn to make him shiver and moan; his fingers, wet and patient, opening him up as he waits for Zayn’s breath to thin until it’s completely gone, taken away from him with a twist of his wrist. And then Harry would stop, he’d give him a break, a chance to catch up, until he’d start again, from the beginning, waiting to hear another _please_.

Harry wants it all, but from the smirk on Zayn’s face, he knows he wants to play, like this is a game, as if Harry’s having fun and his skin isn’t burning just from the thought of feeling Zayn’s fire again. So with a hand around his neck, Harry rolls them over and says, “No, not really,” his eyes on Zayn’s.

He gets up from the bed and takes of his jacket, his shirt and then his pants, all in one, folding them over the armchair too. He turns around to see Zayn shimming out of his suit, still on the bed, his hands shaking.

Harry thinks about what he wants and how bad wants it. He makes his way back to the bed, climbs on top and kneels at Zayn’s hips. He’s always had the narrowest hips and the broadest back, sensitive skin right behind his knee, right above his ass in the middle of his dimples that Harry used to kiss.

When he looks down at him, at the lip he has between his teeth, the lively fire in his eyes, Harry asks, “Do you want this?” because he does, more than anything, more than he wants to fly. But he has to ask, because they always asked, they always did what they wanted and Harry doesn’t want to change that now.

With a slow blink dragging over a slower second, like he’s taking a look for himself, Zayn nods his head, lets go of his lip. “Yeah,” he says around a breath as he spread his legs, makes room for Harry to settle between them. “Yeah, I do.”

Harry nods to himself, grabs Zayn by his hips and leans down to kiss him again, slow and careful, agreeing to not play around tonight, to not break this moment and get lost in it instead, because they have nothing else to do, nothing left to lose but themselves.

Harry takes his time opening Zayn up. He presses in with two fingers and watches as Zayn’s eyes screw shut, his hips hovering in the air right above the sheets, trying to climb his way closer to Harry. But Harry’s getting exactly what he’s wanted. He’s running one hand up and down on Zayn’s thigh while he spreads his fingers apart and listens for that gasp of air that comes right after. He’s digging his nails in Zayn’s skin and then he’s barely touching him. He licks at the head of Zayn’s cock, lying hard against his stomach, before he calls for a quick cold breeze to wrap around his skin instead.

Harry’s aching to get some relief himself and as if Zayn can still read Harry’s mind like he used to, knowing what he wants before Harry does, he hooks a leg around Harry’s waist and digs his heel into his back, pulling him down until they can kiss again and Zayn can wrap a hand around him, bring a moan out of him too.

He goes to add a third finger, trying to press his it against Zayn’s rim, but Zayn’s shaking his head against his lips, saying, “No, no, come on,” as he spreads his legs wider. And Harry only needs to be told once.

“Like this?” he asks, nuzzling into Zayn’s neck, licking his way up so he can kiss him behind his ear. Harry’s helpless like this, with Zayn underneath him trying to grind his hips up and up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn breaths out, as if he’s made of air, not fire.

He grabs a pillow and places it underneath Zayn’s raised hips to get him higher, so he can take Harry deeper. Zayn plants one foot on the bed and presses the other thigh against his chest and Harry’s sure he’s going to be the one left breathless tonight.

He slips on a condom that was in Zayn’s wallet without wondering who he was planning to use it with, because this isn’t the time and Harry’s thoughts are slowly burning away as it is, clouded in smoke, enraptured by the fire blazing in Zayn’s eyes.

With the last coherent thought hanging on by a frail thread, Harry places his hand on the back of Zayn’s thigh and pushes in. He starts off slow, they both do, careful and patient, Harry inching closer to Zayn, watching for any sign of anything at all.

He’s waiting for a hand on his chest that’ll stop him and bring him plummeting down on Earth and Harry’s waiting for a hitch of breath, a dragged out moan and a hand on his back, pulling closer. When Zayn opens his eyes and looks up at Harry, the frown melting from his face replaced by a sly twist of his lips, Harry feels like he can breathe again. And move, he needs to move.

They pull each other close. Sinking nails into skin and biting at shoulders, at the closest juncture underneath their lips, Harry keep grinding his hips and Zayn can’t keep still, twisting his neck, lifting his leg up so Harry has somewhere to brace himself when the air stills around them.

The world stops. When Harry leans down to kiss Zayn, it’s like everything stops and it’s just them in that bedroom, breathing in sync until Zayn shuts his eyes closed and his skin ignites, turning a shade of lively red and burning all the way to Harry’s palms, to his own chest, expanding like a setting sun. Everything hangs in suspense as Zayn arches his back and Harry keeps his hips moving, keeps pushing into Zayn, bringing them closer. Harry can feel how the air drains from the room, drawn into Zayn until the moment he stops breathing and Harry presses closer into him, moving his hips harder in a breathless moment.

It probably lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like they spend at least a day running out of breath and gasping for it back, bracing against each other as they come, shaking and moaning, hot and spent.

“You stopped breathing.”

Harry laughs, making no move to roll off of Zayn. “Yeah well, it’s because of you.” Their skin is cooling, the air around them not as heavy. Harry can feel the draft coming from the balcony’s open doors, wrapping around them and kissing their shoulders.

“Oh, yeah?” Zayn asks, and Harry can clearly hear the satisfied smirk in his voice. He lifts himself up and halfheartedly smacks at his chest.

“No, you smartass. You practically took the air out of the room.”

“Huh.” Zayn frowns. Harry doesn’t like the look of it.

He runs the pad of his thumb between his eyebrows, trying to make it go away, as he wonders if it has anything to do with the fire behind Zayn’s eyes, the blue in them burning through the air, needing it to blaze so forcefully.

“I need a shower.”

“Or…” Zayn wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. “You could just lie here for a while.”

Harry thinks about the words he had to cover up, the cake batter on his walls, the day Zayn told him all about meeting his soulmate and the days after, when Harry kept repeating those words to himself, wondering if it was true, if there wasn’t a mistake made somewhere. Wondering why he couldn’t be happy, why that wasn’t enough.

He sighs and rolls off of Zayn, throwing the condom onto the floor and leaving it there to deal with later, because right now, he’s going to lie with Zayn for a while, because he can and Zayn wants him to. So Harry inches closer, places a tentative hand on Zayn’s hip as if he’s asking if it’s okay, if he’s allowed to do that now, after everything they’ve just done. Zayn answers by turning on his side to face Harry and before he closes his eyes with a deep exhale, Zayn kisses him, just once, telling Harry that it’s more than just okay.

////

They’re still dancing. Harry can see there are less people spinning on the dance floor, but some of them are still keeping up with it, laughing when a 90s pop song comes on and they all sing into the sky, because everyone knows the words to _Baby One More Time_. Harry watches Louis and Liam jump around without letting their hands go, always close, always holding the other barely a step away so they can kiss whenever they want, in front of whoever they want.

No matter the season, the nights in Providence are chilly and fresh, so as he stands there in his boxers, looking at how happy his best friends are, Niall and Barbara clearly not ready to go home either, Harry pulls a warm summer breeze around his shoulders and bare legs, shivering against the cold whisper that manages to crawl through.

He wonders how simpler life would be if he could have any control over how it all plays out. Maybe if instead of the weather Harry could control the grand scheme of things, the universe and everything else that goes with it, he wouldn’t be standing on this balcony, wondering if he has to leave or if staying is even a possibility he would allow himself. He doesn’t know if he dares to wake Zayn up and ask him if he wants to come over, just for tonight, because Harry knows he’ll need a good reason to stay away from him this time around.

He keeps thinking where he’ll go from here, even as he hears the sound of a belt buckle, of pattering feet on the hardwood floor, the sound of shoes walking closer to the balcony and stopping right at the door. In all the time it takes for Zayn to redress and make himself presentable for the party downstairs, Harry still hopes Zayn will come back to his apartment for the rest of the night.

“I’m, um…” Zayn starts awkwardly, stuttering over his words, like he usually does when he knows what he wants to say but doesn’t know how to get there. “I don’t think…” he goes on. He must shake his head before he manages to say, “This wasn’t a good idea.”

But Harry doesn’t want to hear how bad it is. He doesn’t want to stand there and listen to all the ways they fucked up tonight, how wrong it was, how it’ll never happen again, because Zayn doesn’t love him, because he’s happy with Ethan even if that’s not what he told Harry. But Harry won’t tell him that.

Louis was right – they’re both stupid. Harry does understand that this isn’t meant to be, that if it was, he’d know, feel it deep inside his chest beating right next to his heart. That he’d look up at the starts and feel it all. And Zayn doesn’t know he can’t do this, that he isn’t allowed to kiss Harry and call it a mistake.

So instead of listening to how much Zayn regrets last night, Harry flies away wrapped in nothing but a warm summer breeze.

 

 

_December 2019_

There’s a pair of smelly jeans over Harry’s shoulder, a kitchen rag on his right. He has a plate in his hand with bits of a sandwich he made when he was last here, a slice of an avocado poking out from between the pieces of dry bread. Pushing the sudden nausea aside, Harry feels like crying instead. Catering for weddings and parties and any kind of event that hires the company, working at random pop-ups around town that ensure he comes home covered in grease but make him feel good about helping out a friend, and trying to keep a job in a restaurant with four walls that charges more than three bucks for their food is spreading Harry so thin and wide, he’s almost see-through.

But he gets to do what he loves. Morning shifts at _Bravo Brasserie_ so he can make his breakfasts, afternoons spend in the back of what was once an ice-cream truck and watching first-dances every Friday and Saturday night isn’t as bad as it sounds, but it isn’t what Harry saw himself doing. It isn’t his bistro or his pop-up, guests never remember his name even when they make polite conversation as they snack on a shrimp. It’s what he wants, but not what he’s dreamt of.

He dumps the plate in the sink along with the rag, avoids looking at the dry brown plants on the windowsill outside, peeking through the freezing snow and almost throws up again when he catches a whiff of his jeans. As he calls on a confusing whirl of air with a raised arm to take the stench away, the doorbell rings and Harry doesn’t have the time to wonder who could be in front of his door on a Monday morning, when he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

He dumps the jeans on the floor by the bathroom, swearing he’s burning them, because there’s no way a wash will get rid of the smell, and jumps over to the door, throwing it open in one quick move.

Harry woke up later than he planned this morning. He had an alarm set, the default fire alarm that usually does the trick, but after he had clicked snooze three times, he stuffed his head underneath the pillow and made peace with the fact that today won’t go as he had planned. It’s his only day off, the ever approaching Monday, and if he didn’t get out of bed at eight in the morning, then so be it.

So he woke up just before noon. As she walked out of his room, Anne said that it’s her only limit, “No one gets out of bed after noon in this house.”

Standing with the door still in his hand, droplets of water fall from the strands of his hair to the floor and his bare feet, because there’s nothing like a shower after barely cleaning anything and calling it a day. His sweatpants have holes in them, because he’s clumsy and he runs into pointy furniture and if he doesn’t rip his jeans at the knees, he rips his sweats at his pockets. The hoodie on his back has been washed one too many times, the print on the back practically faded into the fabric, but it’s his cleaning hoodie. It’s his Monday attire, something Gemma told him to try – _pick a day to open the windows and clean around a little. Don’t make yourself live in a mess_. Harry tried telling her that his life was a mess, so it only made sense his apartment should be one too. The smack around his head made him rethink that logic.

He hasn’t been in his apartment for months, so the mess he’s cleaning up now is symbolic, showing himself that he can do it. _See, I can open a window, I can live with fresh air now_. But he couldn’t at first. At first, he floated along with the clouds, up towards the top of the sky and as far away from the wedding Harry could get. Following the wind, letting it take him wherever it wanted, Harry drifted to the house covered in leaves, only one side of it still exposed in brick and paint. The wind took him to the sunflowers in the backyard, blooming all year round, even when snow sticks to their petals.

And since June, he’s stayed there. Living with Anne and her garden, Harry tried to make sense of everything – of the wedding and the kiss, the night he made himself remember and of before as well, the fights and the strings. Gemma came over sometimes to help when Anne got distracted. But Harry didn’t blame her anymore, he couldn’t. She tried to stay indoors, to tend to the potted plants overtaking the living room and kitchen instead, but the life she was growing outside needed her too. And Harry understood that now, he knew his mom had more to take care of them just him and Gemma. She had a bigger family.

Harry understood, because even when he didn’t want to, he felt the clouds grazing his cheeks, every storm in his fingertips, the sun setting in his chest. There’s no escaping it, no running away from it – sooner or later, you have to open the windows.

But Gemma wasn’t the only one who tried to help.

“You realize how stupid you’re being, right?”

“I’m not stupid,” Harry huffed, sitting cross-legged in Anne’s garden, in the small patch of the greenest grass in all of Providence. He wondered if Louis knew just how unhelpful he was, if he could throw him out of his mother’s house or ask Anne to incorporate him into her garden. Louis would make for a dashing gnome.

But crossing his arms and scowling at Harry, it was like Lois knew what he was thinking. “I was talking about the both of you.” He wiggled his toes in the grass, sighed as if he didn’t invite himself over.

“What’s the point of this?”

“What I’m saying,” Louis raised his voice. His eyes glazed over as soon as he did, probably catching himself in the moment of forgetting he can’t go sonic. Harry wondered how many times it’s happened in the years since he lost it. If after the shift, after you lose it, you miss it sometimes, even if you get a soulmate in return. Harry wouldn’t be able to make the days sunny. He remembers thinking it would be worth it. “Is that you’re stupid with your whole soulmate thing,” he pointed at Harry and murmured, “And Zayn’s well, he’s _really_ stupid,” under his breath.

Ignoring the last part, Harry focused on the first. “Why?”

“Look around.”

Harry kept his eyes on Louis, but he gave in when Louis smiled. He moved his eyes over the cedar threes, the oak in the corner, the palm trees aligned with the fence. There were bushes of roses and chrysanthemums, daffodils and sunflowers. He raised his shoulders and looked down at his feet.

Louis extended his leg and kicked his knee gently. “It looks to me like your mom found her soulmate.”

Harry always saw it as an escape, a reason why she wasn’t out there, looking and finding her perfect fit since the man she loved did exactly that and found his own. Gemma said it was Anne’s way of keeping her mind off it, _to make herself feel better_ , except instead of flour and eggs, she had water and the sun, her hands in the grass and her mind on the energy flowing inside of her. Once, she told Harry she talked to them, to the flowers and the trees. For a while, Harry wondered why she wouldn’t talk to anyone else.

But as hard as it was for him to admit, maybe Louis did have a point. Maybe the garden in her backyard was her perfect fit. Or maybe it was all she needed to be happy. Harry knows it’s all some people need.

“I know she’s happy.”

“And?” Louis prompted, like he was a teacher and he needed more from an answer, like he wanted Harry to get there by himself.

“And I get it, I get that I should just let people be happy.” _He’s not stepping on any flowers. He won’t._

Louis nodded with a smile, happy that Harry managed to get there, but then he said, “You should, definitely, but there’s a difference if someone is happy or they just say they are.”

He bit his lip. “What if they say they aren’t?” Harry didn’t know if he should even be asking this.

“Then I guess you know. And you should do something if they aren’t.”

He let Louis grin at him for a second longer, because he still didn’t know why he was here, doing this, saying what he was saying. “Why are you telling me this?”

And just like Harry thought he would, Louis said, “Because I know,” without his grin slipping.

“You know?”

“I do, I know everything.” His chest puffed out like he was offended by Harry thinking otherwise. “I even know some things you don’t.”

Harry frowned at him, his mouth already open when Louis stood up, dusted off his pants, said, “That’s all I’m saying,” and walked off, ignoring the look of utter confusion on Harry’s face.

Sitting on the grass until the sun started dipping behind the horizon, so Harry could pull at it a little, keep it there for a few minutes longer than it was supposed to, he tried to see the charm of it, of sitting around the trees, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t his to see.

So he stayed in his bedroom for the rest of the night, flipping through old CDs and photo albums with layers of dust at the spines, his bed an oasis of the past.

It wasn’t until this morning, around the second time she came to get him out of bed that Anne said he should go out. Harry insisted he does go out, he still works, he goes for drinks with Louis and Niall when they promise no one else is coming – Liam already asleep most times, because he works longer shifts than all of them combined. Anne said he should go out, stand under the sky and listen to what it had to say. She said Harry should talk to the clouds.

“Stop trying to do everything yourself, listen to the wind and the rain and you’ll see.” She smiled. Her eyes weren’t his, but the dimples in her cheeks, the curls of her hair wrapped up into a bun were.

But he went back to his apartment in the end, because the clouds had nothing interesting to share, nothing that Harry wanted to hear anyway. Yet, as soon as he walked inside, he opened the window to let the breeze in. He stood there and watched it slither over the floorboards, wind its way up the walls and all around his feet. It didn’t tell him anything, but it was good company.

As he blinks his eyes to make sure he’s seeing right, Harry wonders if Louis had something to do with this.

“Hey.”

Zayn buzzed all his hair off again. His jeans are more ripped than any of Harry’s and the hoodie he’s wearing has Brown’s letter on it, a jacket over it that Harry doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised by that. But he knows he’s trying to look at everything but Zayn’s face and the lack of hair on his head – it makes Zayn look too young.

After he stutters for air, Harry manages a, “Hi,” of his own.

Zayn scratches at the back of his head, keeping his eyes from directly looking at Harry – they still have some things in common – like he’s afraid of something. Harry doesn’t know what to do. Zayn showed up out of nowhere and now he won’t even look at him.

“What, um…” _What do you want? It’s good to see you. I thought I wasn’t the best idea._ “What are you doing here?”

Zayn shakes his head. Harry was waiting for it. “Can I come in?”

He has to bite his tongue to not quip ‘Not a good idea, actually.’ Instead, he steps aside, motions with his hand, but lets Zayn make up his own mind. He doesn’t know why, but he gives Zayn a chance to run away. Without a grunt, Zayn nods his head and takes the first step.

He goes to stand right at the open window. Harry thought he would. It’s something Harry could do: wait for  Zayn to do something and see if he saw it coming or not. It’s better than waiting for some shoe to drop. If there even is a shoe. And it can go on forever as well, with every word he says and everything he has to bite his tongue for, the way he shakes his head and how often he does it. But Harry can’t get past Zayn standing in the middle of his apartment, looking a little confused, like he lost his way on the walk over here.

Harry keeps close to the door though, because he’s waiting for a fire to start right between them and it feels like he should be following some sort of a drill, be precautious, it makes him feel safer. He’s waiting for something to happen when Zayn smiles and says, “You have a lot,” eyeing the candles on the nightstand, the drawer, the kitchen table and around the corners of the room on the floor.

Candles. Harry moves his hands behind his back and smiles tightly. He nods but he doesn’t say anything. He’s going to wait.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Zayn’s pulling a pack out of his pocket. He doesn’t wait for a response or finds it odd that Harry doesn’t say if he can or not, before he’s slipping the end between his lips and inhaling. The smoke swirls into the air and out through the window. “So,” Zayn takes another drag and then again, like he can’t get enough of it, taps the ash off and says, “I broke up with Ethan,” right as he takes another pull.

This time without blinking, Harry says a quiet, “What?” asking himself what’s going on more than anything else, but then he says, “Why?” because he’s trying to wrap his head around it too. He’s trying to wrap his head around this, around Zayn coming over to announce his break up to Harry while his hand shakes with nerves and his eyes are wild with a fire.

“What do you mean _why_?”

 _Don’t snap at me._ “I don’t know why you would break up with him.” Soulmates don’t just break up, you don’t do something like that, even if you really aren’t happy. “That’s why I’m asking.”

Zayn looks at him sideways, the cigarette dangling between his lips, waiting, calculating Harry’s expression before he says, “Because we slept together.”

 _Water is wet. The sky is blue. We slept together. The grass is green._ That’s what it sounds like. That’s how it is for Zayn, just another thing that _is_. Something that happened and nothing more. “But,” Harry bites his lip. He should bite harder. “I thought I was a mistake.” He tries to keep his voice as measured as he possibly can, but it escapes him when he says, “Not a good idea, if I remember right.” They both know he does.

“Of course it wasn’t, I was with Ethan.” They’re both keeping their voices down, standing on opposite sides of Harry’s apartment that’s never felt this small.

As Zayn puts the cigarette out on the snow in the flower pot, something clicks for Harry. “Did you come here to make me apologize? Because you realize I didn’t make you do anything, right?”

“I had to lie to him.” Zayn isn’t listening to him. He’s looking out the window and it’s like Harry isn’t there. “I had to lie to him and I just… I couldn’t anymore.”

“So you told him?”

Zayn turns his head, looks at Harry with nothing but fire in his eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

He feels like he should take a step back. Harry feels like he’s standing too close to the heat of the sun. “Why not?”

“I know you couldn’t possibly understand this,” Zayn spits out. “But I didn’t want to be selfish. I couldn’t hurt him more than I already had.”

Harry does take a step back. “Are you trying to say I’m selfish?”

“Not trying as much as it’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I’m not selfish,” Harry says, taking a step forward. He doesn’t say anything about what it means for Zayn to come over uninvited and unannounced to what? Yell at Harry? Make him feel worse than he already is? Take his failed relationship out on him?

“Harry…”

“No,” he says before Zayn can shake his head at him. “I’m not selfish.”

Zayn clenches his hands into fists and pushes away from his perch at the window, taking a step closer too. “You strung me along for how many years, all the while saying ‘no strings’ every chance you got and we both know that wasn’t for my benefit.” With every word he says, the heat from him radiates closer to Harry. “You did it so you could sleep at night. In my bed. Between fucking me and our roommate, _Harry_.”

“That’s… that’s not…”

“What? That’s not selfish? Because it doesn’t sound selfless to me.” Zayn raises what he can only describe as a condescending finger, tapping it against his chin. “Actually, it kind of sounds like charity. Maybe you felt sorry for me, so you fucked me and the rest of the Providence’s student body at the same time, because you thought you were doing me a favor. I’m sorry to inform you –”

“You don’t actually think that,” Harry interrupts him. If they were standing closer, if Harry had his hand on Zayn’s burning skin, it would look like they’re dancing, two steps forward, two steps back. “You can’t think that.”

“Well what the fuck else would I think?” Zayn asks the ceiling, the sky, shouts it out like he’s asking the world for the answer.

“That we were best friends!” Harry answers the whole world too. “You never let me kiss you in front of anyone. I couldn’t even hold your hand.” Maybe they can tell each other everything they resented. Maybe this is them getting it off their chests.

“Because people kept asking questions.” Zayn’s eyes burn as he says it. “‘Are you two dating? How long have you been together?’ every day. And I didn’t know what to say, because ‘no, we’re just fucking. See, Harry doesn’t want to date me, because I’m not his soulmate,’ made me seem like I was taking what I could get.” Zayn laughs dryly, “And it’s not like that wasn’t exactly what I was doing.”

“That’s not true –”

“Best friends don’t fuck,” Zayn quips. “Best friends don’t kiss and they don’t hold hands, they don’t hurt each other and they don’t fall in love. Best friend don’t fuck,” he enunciates clearly, slowly, speaking as if there are full stops behind each word.

And there might be, but Harry doesn’t really hear that part. “What?”

“Are you fucking Niall? Because I swear to god, Harry, I will –”

“Shut up.” Harry lifts his hands and wraps an ice cold breeze around Zayn. He needs a minute to process and he isn’t exactly thinking rationally right now, because Zayn said, “You loved me?”

It might be the breeze, but the temperature cools in the apartment, fresh air rushing in through the window as Harry stands there with his hand in the air and Zayn just keeps looking at him. It looks like it, but they aren’t stuck in the moment. There isn’t anything suspending them in midair, no strings or special tricks up Harry’s sleeve. They just stand there, because Harry can’t move and Zayn doesn’t want to.

“Instead of focusing on the fact I broke up with my boyfriend of five years, you focus on that.” Zayn shakes his head, his eyes on the floor. But when Harry asks, “Boyfriend or soulmate?” he’s quick to raise them again.

Harry thinks of the time Zayn’s posters burned to ash with a single stray spark shooting out of his fingertip and how he made it worse with his air, because air and fire don’t mix, their powers have never been compatible – one too wild while the other went unseen. He remembers the time he was dancing with Calvin and how he wanted Zayn to come dance too, sway his hips with Harry instead of the guy who asked him to prom. He thinks of later, when there was Lukas and Chris and all the dates Harry went to with a spring in his step and always came back from with a pout and a shake of his head. _Not the one._

Maybe it was when they flew together. Maybe it was right after.

It’s the deep sigh that makes him focus back on Zayn walking over to the kitchen table, where he doesn’t sit, like he only wanted to put more space between them or get away from the hold of Harry’s wind, but Harry doesn’t care which it is right now. He doesn’t care if Zayn flies to the moon, as long as he tells him when it happened and how he knew, because Harry knows when it happened for him, how he knew that Zayn wasn’t charity. Harry knows when Zayn’s bed stopped being just his.

Zayn could be thinking of a Sunday they spend in bed watching _A Walk To Remember_ , because he might’ve looked over at Harry’s watery eyes and it hit him, just like that – but not like lightning, more like a passing thought you shrug at and forget apparently.

“You probably remember,” Zayn starts, looking at the ground somewhere between his boots and Harry, like his eyes can’t get closer. Harry wonders if the flame in them is docile or wild, if Zayn has trouble containing it. “There’d be a circle of kids in front of the school, and the first years would either show off or run away when Louis picked them. And I remember how you made that warm wind come out of nowhere.” The corner of Zayn’s mouth curves slightly at the memory. “But Louis pushed you. He said he knew you were hiding something… and he was right.” Zayn frowns and finally brings his eyes up, like he’s ready for something, like the time has come. “As soon as you lifted off the ground, kids started running away. You brought the sky to its knees and I think that’s when I first fell in love with you.”

Zayn finishes with a shrug, saying _but it’s not a big deal_ , because he always does that when it is, when he’s nervous and he wants to hide. But Harry won’t let him, not this time. Not anymore.

“Niall tried to stop me. I could feel him trying to get to me.”

“Louis did too.”

Harry doesn’t remember hearing his piercing screech, but maybe that’s why Zayn tried as well. “You did it though.”

Zayn nods, his eyes glued at the inch of floor right in front of Harry. “Yeah.”

This time, it’s Harry who shrugs, but smiles as he says, “I saw your fire.” He thinks of the blinding red and then the sunset in Zayn’s eyes, the orange and red against the blue flame looking back at him. “It was pretty.”

Zayn snorts in a burst of laughter. “That was – that was it,” he’s nodding. “That’s when.”

“Why didn’t you –”

“I just…” Zayn cuts him off, running a hand through his hair. He pauses for a second and then finally looks at Harry. There’s a spark in his eyes and as he sighs, it seems to go out. “Don’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?” Harry feels a lot of things. He feels shame and disgrace, because he never wanted to be this person who can’t let go of someone even if it’s hurting them, who keeps fucking up and pulling him back into a mess they started years ago. He feels anger, because Zayn won’t even look at him anymore. But most of all, the thing Harry’s trying to push away to the bottom of his stomach is reluctance.

He can’t help but walk over to Zayn and just hold him. Like he used to when they were in the Malik house and Harry didn’t want to go home yet. Like he used to when the fire going at their feet was breathing in time with Zayn, and Harry kept crawling closer and closer into him, as if they were ever close enough. Harry can’t stop fucking up and pulling him back in, hurting Zayn more each time.

“Just –” Zayn turns around in his arms, pleading Harry with his eyes and if he’d know what it’s for, Harry would give it to him, he’d give him everything. He holds onto Harry’s forearms, his fingers barely touching his skin, not the grip Harry was expecting. “Just _it_.”

“Zayn…”

And then Zayn kisses him, all teeth and tongue and pushing past Harry’s lips before Harry can take a breath. It feels warm from inside out, like it’s August, not a couple of days before Christmas. Harry can feel it starting in his toes, like a blazing storm that’s spreading toward his stomach and his chest, wrapping around his throat, his face.

He opens his eyes when he takes a breath and all the candles are lit, every single one alive with the fire that’s burning all around them. It’s like the air is on fire, the flames licking at their skin without touching them, no breeze to be felt, no oxygen left to breathe. Just the flames flying upwards, climbing higher and higher around them.

When Harry looks at Zayn, his eyes are reflecting every single spark of it. “This,” Zayn says, kissing Harry again, brushing their lips together as he says, “Don’t you feel this?”

The thing about finding your soulmate is you might not even notice them until they’re standing in front of you, staring back at you with fire in their eyes. Some powers dwindle and others explode, but sometimes, if you’re especially unlucky, you don’t feel the shift at all. There might not even be a shift to feel.

Harry closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together with an exhale, and the fire flicks higher with a blue glow. Looking around them, his eyes land on Zayn’s, blue as if there’s something mixed in with his fire.

He sees a flame flick up into the air on the right and shivers with it. Holding on to Zayn, he shakes his head, mumbles, “I don’t. I can’t.” _But I want to._

“I do.”

“Since…”

“Since the first time,” Zayn whispers, but Harry can hear him, clearly, every word, like it’s echoed in the flames around them.

 _And you didn’t say anything_ , Harry thinks, looking at the reflection in Zayn’s eyes. Because Harry was waiting for his soulmates, to feel that shift somewhere deep in his bones, in his chest, wherever Zayn felt his. The thing about soulmates is that even if you’re theirs, they might not be yours.

Never getting to feel it, to know that this is it, that it’s what he’s been waiting for all this time makes Harry lose his breath. It makes it hard to breathe, it does, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t exactly where he wants to be. That the fire burning at his fingertips isn’t burning in his chest as well.

Harry kisses Zayn, because he doesn’t know how to say all of that and make it sound like he means it. So he kisses him once and then again, and Zayn kisses him back, because this – this is it.

“I love you too, you know.” This part is easy.

Zayn takes Harry’s hands in his and brings them to his chest. “I do.”

He gives a little of himself away to Zayn and the fire glows with a livelier blue, like a quick lightning bolt striking the night sky, so Harry makes it count. He keeps one hand in Zayn’s and raises the other, calling on a breeze from the mountains, not the sea, and as soon as it touches their skin, everything around them turns blue, the air a match for Zayn to burn.

Because even if Zayn’s fire wasn’t made for him, his air was meant for Zayn.

 

 

_August 2020_

It feels like there are less people looking at him than the last time Harry had to walk down an aisle. It might be because his suit is perfectly steamed now or it might be because this time there are actually less people – he checked.

The music is playing as he’s walking, a beat per step, and everyone is looking at him again, except Harry isn’t thinking about napkins or flowers or the cake he made last night. It’s a three-tier white chocolate cake covered with chocolate shavings as per the groom’s request, though Harry doesn’t hold a grudge against chocolate anymore, so he was more than happy to do it. He’s thinking about how handsome Zayn looks standing there, waiting for Harry to join him, because this time, Harry can think that.

He’s allowed to remember how he picked up Zayn’s suit from the drycleaners or how they were almost late, because when Harry went to wake Zayn up, he was pulled back onto the bed and forced to kiss Zayn’s morning-breath-mouth. Not that Harry minded. Not that he’d mind being late if Zayn rolled to his hands and knees that fast again. Lately, there aren’t a lot of things Harry minds.

He gets to the end of the aisle and turns to the left this time to go stand in his position. The music changes, the classic tune that always hits a spot with him and just as Barbara walks in, making her way along the back row of the chairs,  Zayn steps closer to Harry and reaches for his hand.

When Barbara takes her first step, Harry wells up.  And this time, Niall does too.

 

_The End._

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://itsallaboutzarry.tumblr.com/).


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